Peace through Power
by Vherstinae
Summary: Annette Hebert was a young revolutionary who happened to fall into the wrong crowd. But who inspired her to be such a firebrand? And what happens when Taylor starts reading her journals?
1. Prologue - The Creed

**Prologue: The Creed**

I ran all the way home, legs burning from exertion and eyes stinging with tears. How could she do that? No matter how cruel Emma had been, I had never expected that she'd stoop so low as to destroy my mother's flute. She didn't just break it, no, that would have been too kind of her: the instrument was horrifically corroded and caked with all manner of scum, left on my desk for me to find. And then, before I could truly process what had happened, it was gone all over again.

I was so busy crying that I didn't even remember the rotting step – my foot went through the wood, splinters impaling me as I crashed forward, slamming face-first onto the welcome mat. I released a soft groan, the only noise I had left in me, as I pried myself loose. Blood ran down my leg from the jagged cuts, part of my shin looking like ground beef, and I collapsed against the door. Clutching my wound, I buried my face in my knobby knees and sobbed.

Some time later, I finally wrenched myself to my feet and unlocked the door, limping to the kitchen for the antiseptic and bandages. "I'm sorry, Mom," I whimpered. Why did this have to happen? I needed her support. I couldn't rely on Dad; when the going got tough, he shut down. We almost lost the house when he was wallowing in his misery over Mom's death. If he had a relapse, we didn't have enough saved up to cover it. I knew I was weak and desperate for a crutch, but what else could I do?

I hobbled through the house to the basement, to throw my pants and sock in the washer. As I added the bleach, I looked around at all the clutter. Other than photos and Mom's flute, everything we had to remember her by was packed into these boxes – Dad hadn't had the strength to sort through her things and decide what was worth keeping, so we stored it all away. On a whim, I stumbled over to one of the boxes and opened it up. Inside was a collection of different knickknacks from what I assumed to be her college days, as well as several journals just starting to yellow. Dad had said that she'd been a hellion back then, though she was always too embarrassed to talk about it when she was alive. "Maybe I could use some rebellion," I muttered, opening one up and flipping to a random page. I found the paragraph break, and started from there.

" _That the government keeps us safe is both truth and lie. Police deal with criminals as best they can, but they also arrest people for actions that are only crimes because of frivolous laws. If you don't pay taxes and obey arbitrary rules, you have rights stripped from you and are thrown in prison. From one point of view, the government is the biggest protection racket of all and only maintains order because carnage and murder are bad for business._

" _Even before parahumans, governments were already spying on their own citizens. The World Wars and the Cold War gave excuses for curtailing rights and invading privacy. Here in the US, the 'party of human rights' instituted internment camps during WWII. The two-party system is a lie: corrupt politicians playing both sides against the middle while they advance their own agendas and line their pockets._

" _I can already hear Uncle Kane's voice. 'Annette, remember: be clear, be concise, be straightforward, be honest when you can, and don't let yourself get pushed onto the defensive.' And here I am anyway, rambling in a journal. His advice served me well in debate club. And everywhere else, really. My point is that the only way to keep governments honest is to keep them afraid of their people. In the past, that meant having militias and plenty of weapons. But nowadays there are tanks and bombs and missiles, not to mention literal superhumans. Ordinary people just can't muster the kind of military force to oppose the government. This is the reason that the pen is mightier than the sword. George Washington may be considered the father of our country, but I credit Thomas Paine more. His 'Common Sense' books galvanized the American colonies into full-blown revolution against a tyrant._

" _That's the secret: appealing to people's humanity, finding what they value and tying that to your cause. Perhaps it's manipulative, but it's always the listener's own choice to agree. If you can't fight the government, then get the government's fighters on your side. Ordinary people can change the world: they just need strength of numbers and even stronger convictions."_

That was an interesting rant on Mom's part. It sounded like she was planning some sort of full-blown uprising; weird to think that she was content as an English professor. I flipped back to the front to see if there was some sort of inscription. I knew from pop culture that people would often include some personally relevant quote on the blank first page. I found a quote, but it definitely wasn't in Mom's handwriting. It was a sort of fusion of print and cursive, sharp lines but with an elegance to them rather than an aggression. It consisted of three words.

" _Peace through Power."_


	2. Upheaval 01

**Upheaval 1.01**

I decided to spend the rest of the day looking through Mom's college journals. Taking some of the dirty laundry and piling it into the corner, I made the poverty version of a beanbag chair and set up with the box of books. Looking through the wobbly shelving units, I could watch the washing machine and make sure it didn't get stuck. The thing was old and had a tendency to come unbalanced.

Mom's journals didn't mention her uncle much, and from what I gathered he'd up and vanished before she even got to college. From how she mentioned him and the advice he gave, I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up thrown in federal jail or having to flee the country. Impressive as he seemed, he was definitely an agitator. Another name that I was surprised to see was Lustrum. The woman was now in the Birdcage as a result of her actions, and as far as I knew she was the only cape consigned to the prison for reasons other than use of her power.

I hadn't read up on it, but from what I remembered she was a serious women's rights revolutionary who wanted to upend the entire country and rebuild it from the ground up. Eventually her instigations reached a point that her followers were attacking random men and viciously assaulting or even killing them. From the tendency to mutilate the men's genitals, the attacks were dubbed the "Great Emasculation" in the papers. Considered too big a threat to remain free, even if she hadn't committed the attacks herself, Lustrum was thrown in the Birdcage and most of her supporters were living out decades-long sentences in jail.

Reading the journals, I began to understand: Mom had been a revolutionary working under Lustrum – so closely, in fact, that they met personally on more than one occasion – but began to have her doubts. In a country that had granted women's suffrage through public pressure, it seemed wrong to her that Lustrum was agitating for violent expression. _"Violence is only justifiable when you are being directly and violently opposed,"_ she wrote, _"Not when you're impatient for change to come. Change through internal violence is rarely stable afterward, and making people afraid is no way to sway the public. Kane would talk a lot about the dictators of the past – Stalin, Hitler, Kim – and how revolution through fear only worked if you didn't care about the people beneath you."_ It made sense. Machiavelli talked about how it was better to be feared than loved, but he was speaking to those already in power. Fear is a good way to maintain power, but hope is what earns you power. Plus, Mom was right: hurting people while demanding more rights was about as ass-backward as you could get. 'We're going to hurt innocent people until you give us stuff!' 'Okay, we'll give you a free trip to jail.'

" _It's gotten to be too much. Whitney and other girls in the chapter are talking about attacking people to send a message, and apparently other chapters are on the same page. Lustrum has to know, but she hasn't spoken out about it – the same as approval to an angry mob. I didn't get involved in this to hurt people."_ A couple of later entries mentioned worrying about how Whitney was getting along in prison, so I guessed Mom reported their plans and the girls got caught. She never stopped being a revolutionary, really, but she took the route of Thomas Paine by teaching classes with a moral. Whether the students learned the moral or even chose to accept it was up to them, but maybe she was making the world a bit better.

" _Fanaticism is powerful but dangerous. The fervor it creates can spread like a virus, infecting more and more people until you have a revolt on your hands. But those same people who bring so much zeal to the revolution are often a danger to the stability of the new regime, because they won't stop wanting to change the world. At least Lustrum did the right thing by taking responsibility for the chaos she created. True progress is slow and steady, not a sudden rush."_

I also understood why Mom had never wanted to be part of any club or association, didn't get too involved with her own friends: she'd almost gone down a bad road in her youth, and didn't trust her instincts. While I was reading the journals, I thought that was a bit extreme. But later on, when I looked up (admittedly censored) images of the Great Emasculation, I got why she would lack confidence in her judge of character.

"True progress is slow and steady," I repeated the line aloud to myself. The first thing I thought of was Emma. She kept saying she'd outgrown me, yet continually stalked and harassed me. That wasn't progress; I was aware that some people could outgrow old friendships, but they didn't come back to bully their old friends. Whatever happened, Emma was broken. Even a day ago, I probably would have taken that as a sign that she could be fixed, that I could have my friend back. But after seeing my mother's flute… Emma Barnes was dead to me.

I shook my head, washing her out of my thoughts. Violent, sudden upheaval almost never made things better. That was what happened with the city, when the Marquis was Caged. Instead of the city becoming safer with the leader of the biggest gang behind bars, it was an orgy of violence until things stabilized, with even more ruthless and psychotic gangsters leading things. Allfather was succeeded by Kaiser, and Lung appeared to rally the various Asian gangs into a new major power. Racists left and right, and in the middle the Merchants took over the drug trade. When the Marche was in power, they regulated drug sales to keep with their 'honorable criminals' schtick. With them gone, the Empire started dogfighting rings, the ABB threw themselves into human trafficking, and the Merchants took over the substance trade routes.

Maybe that was why the Protectorate seemed so useless: they could be trying to avoid making things worse again. Things sucked, sure, but if someone like Hookwolf took over E88 things would be exponentially more horrific. That didn't make things any better for those of us on the ground, though. Sure, the city kept running and the gangs mostly sniped at each other, but we were the collateral-damage cost of maintaining the stalemate. Worse still, everybody knew that something would eventually give. The ABB kept pushing, E88 would import new capes, and eventually one of the gangs would take an actual stab at uprooting the Protectorate. And then things would go from 'bad', straight past 'worse', and all the way to 'hell on Earth'.

But all that one needed to affect change was the will and the force of numbers. The former would enable the latter. _Maybe…_

(BREAK)

Dad woke me up. I'd fallen asleep on the crumpled laundry, my exhaustion boosted by the mild blood loss from my leg. I'd wanted to have the laundry done and my wound hidden; it led to too many questions.

"I tripped coming home," I said, not quite a lie. "Stumbled into the step and, well," I pulled a face, a mix of sheepishness and disappointment.

He wasn't entirely buying it, but the rest of my situation must have had him a little bemused. "And all of this?" Dad gestured to the box, the numerous journals, and my throne of stinky clothes.

"My leg hurt and I wanted to take my mind off things, so I decided to look through some of the stuff, see if I could cheer myself up. These things are really interesting. Did you ever read Mom's journals?"

He shook his head, squatting down beside me and helping me pack them back up for now. "A lot of that stuff was personal, and some of it from hard times in her life. Annette was always honest with me, though, and she told me about them. Then again," he chuckled, "I don't think she had any darker secrets than when we met." At my quirked eyebrow, Dad nodded to the books. "Her college days. That's when we met; I was at trade school while Anne-Rose – that's what she went by at the time – was in college, and we met at the local bar where all the students would hang out. My eyes met hers from across the room and just..." He trailed off with a joyous, wistful smile on his face. After a moment to wipe the tears misting in his eyes, he continued. "It was like being plugged into an outlet. I just knew that one day I was going to marry that woman. And, when I finally worked up the courage to go over and talk to her," he paused for dramatic effect, "she called me a creep and told me to go chase someone else's skirt."

I couldn't do much more than blink incredulously, so he continued, stealing some of my laundry throne for himself. He looped an arm around my shoulders and held me close. "Don't be so surprised. She was in with Lustrum at the time after all, and the only requirement for membership seemed to be hating men."

We hadn't talked like this since...well, since we lost Mom. I snuggled against my father and let him keep weaving his story. "Now, normally I would've just left her alone. But that feeling just wouldn't let me be. So, every time I saw her after that, I'd go over and say hello. I listened to her rant at me, sometimes she'd shout insults, but each time it felt a little more forced. After about a month, she didn't snap at me the moment I came by. I sat down and asked if we could start with a clean slate, and reintroduced myself."

He took a moment to take off his glasses, setting them on his leg. "One night, when Annette and I were reminiscing about the past, she told me I probably saved her. I was so patient but stubborn that I eventually wore her out, and because of that she really started to question things about Lustrum's movement. I'm not gonna take that much credit: your mom was always the smart one and she was already seeing things she didn't like, but meeting me probably gave her that last little push to get out."

I snickered. "So you're the weird guy she mentioned in those."

He puffed up his chest. "None other. Now, Taylor...where's your mom's flute?"

And with that, the world dropped out from under me again. I stumbled over my words, trying to think of a lie. Then he was snapping at me, then I was shouting, then he was shouting. I barely remember what we said to each other, just that I was panicked and trying desperately to weasel some sort of excuse.

"Taylor, you can be honest with me! I'm not made of glass!"

"Then why did we almost lose the house!?" I shrieked, then stopped myself. I wished I could take those words back. He'd suffered enough.

The wind vanished from Dad's sails and in that moment he looked at least a decade older. "You've been trying to protect me?" How did he see through me so easily? Better question, where had he been when I needed him? "...What's been going on, and how long?"

I slumped back against the wall, sliding down to my laundry throne. It no longer felt comfortable and safe. "We almost lost our home last time," I muttered, my voice dull. It was either mute my emotions as much as I could or scream to a point where I'd be unintelligible. "You'd just break down again, or try to fix it, and we'd lose everything."

Tears spilled from his eyes. "God… I failed you, Taylor." I didn't contradict him. He knelt down beside me, hugging me tight. "Even if I can't help, I should at least be here to comfort you. Please, tell me what's wrong."

Like a sluice gate had been opened, the words poured out of me. I told him about Emma, about her new friend, about her deranged crusade to make my life hell. To his credit, Dad didn't rage. He didn't storm out of the room. He just held me and petted my hair as I cried.

At long last, he spoke. "Alan and I have been friends for years. If I–" I opened my mouth to protest and he cut me off. "Taylor, I'm a union rep. I'm used to dealing with people who don't want to admit their problems. It's all about framing things the right way. I'll focus on Emma needing help to come to terms with whatever happened, rather than on her ruining your life."

"It's all about the right argument, isn't it?" I wasn't really talking to him, more sorting things out in my head. "Lustrum didn't use her powers, but her arguments led to people being maimed and killed. It's all about framing things and swaying people." I nodded to myself, then looked over to Dad. "I'm trusting you on this."

(BREAK)

Dad didn't want me going in to school the next day, and I had to be the one to argue. It was all about appearances, and I couldn't let people see me as more hurt than I already was. The crowds didn't help me because they saw no reward and plenty of risk. I had to change the structure of power if I was to get anything done, and that was worth my own risks. I saw this as a test run: if I couldn't make it work, I'd side with Dad and try to get authorized for homeschooling.

Standing at the doors of Winslow, I steeled myself, squared my narrow shoulders, and headed inside. Immediately the whispers started, girls giggling to each other just loud enough for me to hear. "Ugliest girl in the school...ran away crying...nobody wants her here..."

And then there was Emma – beautiful, perfect Emma, arms crossed just beneath her hefty bust in a way to remind me of my complete lack of curves. "I'm glad to see you back, Taylor," she said, he voice sickly sweet. "You were so upset yesterday, I was worried you might have gone home to kill yourself."

I may not have known what happened to her, but I knew something had. I quietly scoffed. "I don't break as easily as you," I muttered, walking past her.

Her face contorted into a monstrous snarl and she grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. "What the fuck did you just say!?"

My instinct was to flinch back and look away. My conscience told me to do the same, not to fight my friend. I forced myself to look down into her eyes. "You're broken, and falling apart. You need me to hurt too. But I'm not weak like you." It was so hard not to stutter, but I focused on the feelings of deep betrayal at the destruction and theft of my mother's flute. "I get upset and hurt, sure. But I don't fall apart. Hurting others doesn't make you strong. It just means you want to pull everyone else down to your level." I took a step closer, keeping my gaze locked with hers. "You will give back the flute."

She let out a screech and tackled me.

(BREAK)

I flinched and let out a hiss of pain as the nurse dabbed antiseptic into the scratches on my cheeks. Amazingly enough, Emma had gotten detention for fighting as well. Enough of the onlookers had corroborated my story, once the teachers pried Emma off me, that she got detention for a week while I only got that day. Apparently Miss Popular's position wasn't as secure as she thought, because her little breakdown had people already assessing her status. I really hoped none of those scratches would scar; I was plain enough and didn't need anything making me uglier.

Of course, the nurse wouldn't give me anything for the pain in my head from where I hit it when Emma attacked me. Bitch. So, with an aching head and a scratched-up face, I was set loose in time for the next class. Thankfully, I didn't share Math with any of the major three, and the hangers-on were apparently too busy plotting to overthrow Emma to bother with me. True enough, rule through fear was fragile unless you could maintain the illusion of power.

After that was lunch. Normally, I would find a place to hide and eat in secret. Now, however, I wanted witnesses if they tried anything. I was hurt, sure, but I'd bear the wounds like a purple heart if they helped me break my enemies. It was easier thinking about all this if I stopped considering Emma a former friend: she was one of three direct enemies. The school might be an enemy, but it wasn't an enemy I could fight at the moment. Head pounding already, made worse by the din of the cafeteria, I went to find a table. In navigating the throng, I dodged past a group of E88 wannabes arguing with some proto-ABB. What a bunch of idiots.

As they turned to look at me, I realized my head injury must have been worse than I thought, because I just said that out loud.


	3. Upheaval 02

**Upheaval 1.02**

 _Okay, Taylor,_ I said to myself, _you can do this. You **have** to do this… Now how the fuck do I do this?_ Taking a moment to steady myself, I turned to the two rival groups who were both looking at me like kicking my ass was the first thing they'd ever agreed upon. Mom's advice from her uncle came to me – never let yourself be pushed onto the defensive. I had to find an avenue of attack and push it.

I steeled my face into a stern expression. "You heard me. Only a bunch of idiots would sit there arguing over who gets their neck stomped on first."

That brought them up short. One of the older E88, a senior with pale skin and short-cropped black hair, was the first to respond. "Wait, what?" Followed shortly by one of the younger, more irritable ABB. The guy was so jittery, he reminded me of some bugs I'd seen at a natural history exhibit. "The fuck you say!?"

I purposely rolled my eyes in a 'Lord, give me strength' expression. "You're fighting for the privilege of getting curbstomped. Is that not idiotic?"

The jittery kid jerked forward, plastic knife held like a switchblade. "You lookin' to die, white girl!?" Interestingly, one of his older compatriots set a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Explain yourself," he said to me.

"Jesus fuck," I muttered to myself, rubbing my face in my hands. I was really getting into character; this was kind of fun. Y'know, except for the risk of getting killed after school. "Okay, lemme spell it out for you. We're an afternoon's drive from New York, right?" A few of them nodded, still confused. "And who lives in New York, who can travel at the speed of light and routinely fights Endbringers?" I punctuated each section of that question with a little gesture. More eyes widened. "If – and that's a big if – one of your little goon squads manages to kill off the other and then tries a play for the city, you're gonna get shitcanned. And if, by some unholy miracle, you manage to overthrow the PRT? Legend can pop in and leave all of you crippled for life. You do realize that an attack of that magnitude would probably earn a kill order for all your capes, and you boots-on-the-ground guys would be acceptable collateral damage?"

Some of the older, more mature (though that was questionable) students looked contemplative, but Jitters wasn't convinced. "We have Lung! He fought Leviathan and won! Not even Eidolon did that good!"

I snorted. "Good? Yeah. He just _lost his fucking country_ and had to run all the way to New Hampshire. If Lung managed to ramp up that far, do you really think you'd survive the fight? Kyushu was bigger than this state, and we're one city _in_ that state. Do you prefer to be flattened, or burnt to a crisp?"

That angered the oldest ABB, the one who'd been holding Jitters' shoulder. He was tall for an Asian boy, with a shaved head. "You would dare insult the Dragon?" The formal way he said it, it sounded like some old honor-based accusation.

"It's not an insult, it's a fact. Call him up and I'll tell him directly. His home is gone as a result of his own carelessness, as well as his negligence. If he'd helped from the start, maybe Kyushu would still be here. And he hasn't helped in any Endbringer fights since then. He's either foolishly proud and self-centered, or he's scared. And either of those doesn't bode well for the people working under him." I did my best to lock eyes with each of the ABB kids. "Do any of you really believe Lung would care if you got killed? Would he even bother to move around you rather than step on you?"

At this point some of the E88 guys started to jeer, so I looked over to them. "You shut up too. Your side's just as stupid. You morons are in America, the country who rolled over your asses in 1942. We're not really inclined to side with Nazis, especially if you're trying to brute-force things. We're not pussies like the Europeans; a guy yelling some mean words doesn't make us run and hide."

I shook my head again, this time in disbelief at myself. I was about to give advice to gangbangers, but if I stopped now I'd lose the momentum I was building. "Honestly, you'd have a much better chance of ruling the city if you ditched the capes and just worked at classic organized crime. You get power as a criminal organization by keeping order in the city, holding down crime and making people pay protection money. Problem is, with the shit your capes keep stirring up, it's not really worth it to side with you since your protection comes with a fuckload of collateral damage. Plus, there's the whole Nazi thing.

"Face it, neither of your little numbnut teams have a chance. You cause too much trouble and are trying to rule through fear, which only works if it's worse for everyone to _not_ be allied with you. If you stopped with all the 'criminal enterprise for dummies' and tried actually cleaning up the city, maybe you'd have a chance at genuine power. But as it is, you just make life suck while you fight over crumbs until Daddy PRT decides to give you a spanking." With a double-handed wave of frustration, I washed my hands of them and headed for a table.

Some people started applauding. I did my best to suppress the burning in my cheeks, but the color quickly drained when someone sat across from me. If looks could set someone on fire, Sophia Hess would be a pile of ash.

"Looks like somebody finally grew a spine," she said, her voice mostly flat but I thought I detected a hint of smug happiness.

"Fuck yourself with my flute and die of sepsis, Hess."

She actually chuckled. "If I'd known you had this fire in you, I'd have fucked with your mom's stuff sooner."

Before I could fully process what she'd said, my body was already reacting. I leapt across the table, screaming in incoherent rage, and tackled her off the seat. I clutched her shirt collar and beat her head against the floor before she managed to knee me between the legs, grab my arms and roll us over to pin my arms above my head. Sophia panted hard, eyes unfocused, one eye drifting off to the side. I'd fucked her head up something fierce, apparently. After a few moments of staring at me, she let go my arms and stood up. Then, unbelievably, she offered me a hand. Stunned, I took it and she hauled me to my feet. "I get you," she slurred. "No messing with the family."

"No messing with me, period," I huffed, trying to convey a sense of finality even through my heaving breaths. "I took it out of respect for my friendship with Emma. She broke that trust." I grabbed her wrist as she pulled back. "You will give me back the flute, Hess."

She locked eyes with me and, after several moments, gave a single nod. Bizarrely, none of the staff had come to break things up or stormed in to punish me. Maybe I'd had the wrong idea this whole time: I thought Emma was the school queen and Sophia was her enforcer. But Emma got shot down while nothing was happening with me and Sophia. Hess had something that made her untouchable? It was worth investigating.

I returned to the table. "Go play hide-and-go-fuck-yourself. I'm eating lunch." Much as my stomach was roiling from everything that had just happened, I was still hungry and hopefully the simple PB&J would calm my innards.

After that, classes passed smoothly. Nobody fucked with me, and Madison seemed to go out of her way to avoid me. When I went to my locker to gather my books for detention, I found my mother's flute resting atop the pile of texts. It was still damaged, but had been washed – albeit poorly. I stared at it in befuddlement for at least a full minute before packing it up and heading to do some homework in detention.

(BREAK)

Dad got home while I was scrubbing the flute, cleaning it as best I could. I suspected it could be repaired, but I wouldn't be taking it out of the house any time soon. "Hey Dad," I called over my shoulder while going to town with the scrubby side of the sponge, getting off some crusted...well, it was red like blood but dried blood usually flaked off more easily.

"Hey sweetie. I got a call at the office; you got detention for fighting?" He came up and inspected me, eyes widening when he saw the scratches.

"For being attacked by Emma," I replied, not meeting his gaze. Talking with him about it, it was as if all the adrenaline and fortitude I'd had during the day left me in a single surge and I almost collapsed in a heap. Drying my hands and leaving the flute in the sink, I staggered over to one of the dining chairs. "Zero-tolerance policy my ass. Still, she got a week while I only got today. I think enough people saw her go berserk that she couldn't cover it up. Wanna know the really weird thing, though?"

I skipped over the part where I critiqued the local gangs. Whether it could be interpreted as suicidal foolishness or giving advice to the bad guys, either way it wasn't worth the frustration of telling him. Instead I told him about Sophia, how I'd attacked her but the staff did nothing, and then I found the flute in my locker.

"Wait a second," I said, remembering something important. "I changed my locker's combination this morning. How the hell did she get the flute in my locker?" I looked at my father. "Help me out, here. There's something going on that I can't quite fit together." I tapped on the table as I listed off the bullet points. "So I thought Emma was the ringleader because of her rich dad and huge boobs, but she got detention for fighting. Sophia, on the other hand, got tackled and beaten in the middle of the cafeteria yet nothing came of it. She put Mom's flute back in my locker when nobody knew the combination but me. She's Emma's new friend and Emma suddenly started acting like a psychopath after meeting her."

I took a breath. "With everything else, I'd say she's in with the gangs, except she's black. The Empire hates non-whites, the ABB hate non-Asians, and the Merchants don't have the clout to suddenly change Emma like that. But when you add in the locker thing, that goes into the supernatural."

Dad's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh fuck," he muttered. "She's a cape."

"And the school knows," I replied, ignoring his burst of profanity. "For whatever reason, they know she's a cape and look the other way when she starts shit. Problem is, I can't figure out which one she is."

My father was less inclined to dig into the mystery. "Uh, Taylor, maybe we shouldn't be trying to figure out who she is? That's the kind of thing that gets people killed."

I shook my head. "If she has free rein in the school, she's only going to escalate. I might have the nut's respect right now, but how long until she decides to step things up? Or maybe she'll do something horrible to Emma as punishment. I mean, yeah, it'd be karma, but I don't want for her to end up crippled or killed when I'd know that I could've stopped it." I idly scratched my head. "Again, she can't be in the gangs. E88 and ABB wouldn't take her, and the Merchants would be parading a new cape around. Circus is white, Faultline is too old to be in high school and is probably white under that costume..."

This time my father was ahead of me. As he screamed and hurled a chair down the hall, I came to the same conclusion: she had to be with the Protectorate – more specifically, the Wards. Process of elimination said she had to be Shadow Stalker, which would also explain how she was able to get into my locker.

Dad stalked back to the fridge, withdrew a beer, and popped the cap on the side of the counter. I waited until he was done chugging about half of it. "I think I have a plan."

He wiped his mouth, letting out a heavy breath. "That fast, Little Owl?"

"It's not very detailed," I admitted, "but it doesn't have to be. It's a three-step program. Step one, we go to the Protectorate and try to get them to admit their fuckup. I have a journal of their abuses, and plenty of hate mail in my school accounts. It's all circumstantial, but hopefully they'll actually investigate. You really should look through Mom's journals," I said as an aside. "There's a lot of good information for hearts-and-minds strategies. If Mom hadn't joined the wrong crowd, she might be a senator by now. Or a cult leader," I said with a chuckle.

Dad gave a contemplative nod, taking small sips of his booze. "So what're steps two and three?"

"You're not gonna like 'em," I admitted up-front. "If step one doesn't work, I talk with her directly, try and get her to back off." I held up a hand to forestall his shouted protest. "If she does anything, we publicly unmask her. More specifically, we give her information to E88."

Dad looked like he'd been stabbed. "Jesus, Taylor. What…?" He couldn't finish his sentence.

I nodded. "I'm not saying this frivolously. If step one doesn't work, we'll immediately start work on me getting homeschooled. But I don't want someone like that operating with impunity. How long until she kills some poor girl?"

"Or when she kills MY poor girl!?" He shook his head and stalked forward to slap his palm on the table. "No. It's a father's duty to keep his family safe. I know I've failed at that, a lot, but I can't let you put yourself in danger like that. You're letting your hate and fear take you somewhere you shouldn't go. What you're talking about...that's outright evil. I won't let you do it, and once you're thinking straight you'll be glad I didn't. If the Protectorate won't fix their mess, our priority is to keep you safe."

I took a heavy breath and nodded. He was right. I was still thinking in terms of some sort of war, but I'd be putting my life at risk. And that's when I realized that I hadn't cared. I'd been aware that I would probably end up dead, but I considered that an acceptable loss. I hugged Dad close and buried my face in his chest.

I cried for a while, until my head started to hurt again. Finding my voice at last, I muttered into his wet shirt, "I knew I was gonna get killed...and that was okay."

"Oh god, Taylor..." And now he was crying.

We made lasagna that night – Mom's recipe, and we made it together. It was the most delicious meal I'd had in years.


	4. Upheaval 03

**Upheaval 1.03**

The next day, Dad called in to the school saying that I wouldn't be attending that day. The reason he gave was that he didn't trust them to keep me safe when I came home covered in scratches. Next, we called the PRT. As this was the non-emergency line, a cheerful receptionist picked up on the third ring. "Parahuman Response Team, how can we help you?"

Dad was barely able to keep a handle on his temper, but his white-knuckled grip on the table told more than the level of his voice. "Hello, my name is Daniel Hebert. I need to arrange for a meeting, as soon as possible, to discuss assault, theft and abuse of power perpetrated by one of your Wards in their civilian identity."

The line went silent and we weren't sure if she was speechless or had muted her end. Finally, after more than a minute of tension, she was back. "Mister Ebert, we can set up an appointment for noon today at the PRT building. Is that acceptable?"

"It is. Thank you." And with that he hung up, letting out a heavy breath. I gave him a hug.

"Thank you for all this, Dad," I said, and I meant it. After more than a year of going through the motions of life, he was finally doing something for his family again.

Next, Dad called the Association and asked Kurt and Pete to keep an eye on things. We'd be out for the day, after all. We made breakfast together, veggie-and-cheese omelets, and sat down on the couch to channel surf. We ended up settling on some weird game show from out of Reno, where contestants had to answer trivia questions or get sprayed in the face with various sauces and other nasty liquids. We shared a pitying look, silently mourning the state of American education and entertainment, but watched it anyway. Finally, we got my stuff together and hopped into the car, driving down to the PRT headquarters.

While the Protectorate kept its resources in the bay on a modified oil rig that had been rebuilt into a military fortress, for human-resources issues and public relations they also kept an earthbound office on the nicer side of town. As we drove, we didn't speak much. Dad switched on a smooth jazz station and took calming breaths. We pulled into a parking garage across the street and I had to steady myself when we walked toward the PRT building. It was a monolith, and it made me feel uncomfortable to look at it. I didn't know if that was my own nervousness or it had been planned by an architect to feel intimidating.

We walked inside and I could feel dozens of eyes on me, as well as knowing that cameras were tracking our every move. Dad gave my hand a soft squeeze and we approached the front desk, where a pretty blonde with her hair in a pixie cut gave us a carefully-practiced smile. "Good morning, what can the Parahuman Response Team do for you today?"

My father spoke evenly, trying to tamp down his own anger and anxiousness. "I'm Daniel Hebert, and this is my daughter Taylor. We have a meeting scheduled for noon."

She tapped on a screen behind the desk and clenched her jaw for a moment. "Yes, here you are. If you'd have a seat over there, please, an agent will be with you shortly." She gestured to a set of simple chairs and two faux-leather couches, furniture that wouldn't look out of place in a doctor's waiting room. We took our seats and I took a look around the building. The walls were painted baby blue, a smattering of potted plants breaking up the monotony. The desk looked like some sort of linoleum, an off-white color that looped in a half-U shape to separate the receptionist from the visitors. There was a large glass-and-steel staircase behind her, and closer to our section of the room was a heavy-duty elevator like one might see in a hospital, with the wide doors. The entire place felt too small compared to the exterior view, so I was certain there were more rooms hidden somewhere in the back. Interestingly, there were no televisions or music playing to help keep visitors occupied. Dad picked up a crumpled issue of _People_ , the cover story about Canary's trial.

After several minutes, a uniformed PRT trooper came down the stairs. He had dark skin but bright blue eyes, and the kind of crooked-toothed smile that I'd seen on people who'd been punched in the mouth more than once. "Mister Ebert, if you'd follow me please?"

I shot Dad a look. People were always getting our last name wrong. As we followed, he corrected the officer. "It's Hebert, actually. Originally French."

"Oh, really? Cool. My great-grandmother is French. Some of us think she's Creole and just wants to sound fancy, though." So this guy must be the one they call on to help calm people down, leave them relaxed and disarmed.

"I didn't catch your name," I interjected.

"Oh, sorry," he said with a sheepish chuckle. "PRT Agent Darren Mitchell, at your service." One floor up, he led us down a hall to a series of conference rooms, all with wood-paneled doors and frosted glass for the windows. Inside was an older man, possibly a little past Dad's age, with graying black hair and sharp bone structure. He reminded me a little bit of Peter Cushing. Seated beside him was a stunning darker-skinned woman in a navy blue suit, her long black hair spilling down her shoulders. "Mister Hebert and his daughter here to see you," Mitchell said before stepping outside.

The man gestured to the other side of the table. "Please have a seat. I am Wilson Renick, deputy director of the Brockton Bay PRT. This is my colleague, Hannah Roosevelt. While Armsmaster is in charge of the Wards' actions in costume, we are more the administrative side."

Hannah's eyes were sharp and dangerous, her expression coldly neutral. "This meeting was called because you are aware of a Ward's civilian identity, and have leveled multiple accusations. I'd appreciate if we could broach the subject."

Dad nodded. "Just yesterday, we put together that Shadow Stalker, in her civilian identity as Sophia Hess, has been carrying out a campaign of abuse against my daughter." He turned to me. "Taylor, you know all this better than me. Could you…?"

I squared my narrow shoulders. "I'm Taylor Hebert, and I attend Winslow High School. Ever since my enrollment there, every day, I've been under constant attack and abuse by Emma Barnes and Sophia Hess, as well as their hangers-on." I saw Hannah pull out a tablet and begin typing on it. "Emma was my childhood friend. Ever since I can remember, we were sisters in all but blood. She was closer to me than her own big sister Anne. Two years ago," I had to pause and take a shuddering breath. "My mother died in a car crash. I utterly fell apart, and spent more time at Emma's house than my own. I can't even count how many times I cried myself to sleep in her arms."

Renick quirked a brow while I sniffled. "This is saddening, of course, but I don't understand what it has to do with our Ward."

"I needed to give context," I replied. "This is significant, because the year before last my father sent me away to summer camp to try and get my head on straight. I came back feeling better, feeling that I'd come to terms with my mother's death. When I went to Emma's house, she had a new friend with her, who I later learned to be Sophia Hess. Emma hurled abusive words at me and, when I tried to run home, Sophia tripped me. I bit off the tip of my tongue, which took weeks to heal, and I was left with other scrapes and bruises. From that point, the pair of them made it their goal to ruin my life in as many ways as possible."

I slid a scrap of paper across the table, covered in writing. "That is a list of my school email accounts and their passwords. No, you're not wrong: a student is normally only permitted one school account, but mine were continually filled to the maximum with hate mail. I haven't deleted any of it, but I _have_ copied it all to a drive. You'll find that many of the mails come from Emma's and Sophia's accounts, but almost every girl in the school has sent me hate mail. No matter how many accounts I need, the school has done nothing to address the fact that my inboxes are overfull with _hate mail_."

I then slapped the journal on the table with as heavy a thud as I could safely manage. "After the first week, when I realized this wasn't going to stop, I started recording every offense against me. I've been punched, shoved, kicked down a flight of stairs, publicly insulted within sight and earshot of teachers, and nothing was done. What was the last straw for me, though, was when they destroyed my mother's flute."

I had to take a breath and Dad took over, pulling out an older digital camera. "My wife, Annette, wasn't the most talented musician but she always loved the music, and it helped to soothe her in stressful times. Taylor needed anything she could get, obviously, and she'd thought that the flute, at least, would be off-limits. Instead it was stolen from her locker, destroyed and contaminated, then left for Taylor to find before being stolen again." He passed them the camera, a photo of the flute on the screen. "After hours of cleaning, we were able to restore it to that state."

"How did you get it back?" Hannah asked.

"That was yesterday," I responded, taking the reins again. "I only took the abuse because Emma used to be my friend, and because the school did nothing. But when she crossed the line, I stopped caring. I insulted her right back and she attacked me." I touched the bandaids on my face. "Amazingly, she got detention for fighting. I guess openly shrieking and clawing at another girl's face is something even Winslow can't ignore.

"Then, at lunch, Sophia approached me and said she was impressed with my spine. She mentioned that she would have defiled my mother's memory sooner if this was the result." I looked down for a moment. "My adrenaline was still high and, to be honest, I absolutely hate her. So I leapt off the table and attacked her. Despite being in the middle of the cafeteria, even after she pinned me and let me up, nobody came in to punish me. Nobody broke it up. I demanded my flute back from Hess. Next period, I found it in my locker. The locker whose combination I'd changed that morning. The combination that no-one but me knew. Since the locker was undamaged, my father and I discussed what it all could mean. The only answer that made any sense was that Sophia was Shadow Stalker."

"What I don't understand, though, is that Shadow Stalker only started working for you recently, right? How did you not catch all of the abuse?" Dad had a good point.

Renick and Roosevelt shared a look. At length, the deputy director replied. "If your claims have merit, this represents a colossal failure on many parts. Monitoring our Wards' civilian activities is dangerous on the grounds of privacy and human rights, which leads to a delicate series of checks and balances. If Shadow Stalker has been acting as you say, this means she's had help, people covering up her actions. Would you permit us to make copies of your journal?"

I nodded, nervous to the point of shivering. Authority figures had failed me for the last year-and-change. I didn't have much faith in anything coming of this, but I needed to cling to hope.

"Good. I hope I don't have to reinforce that revealing a parahuman's civilian identity is a felony offense. After we make the copies, we'll contact you later with the results of our investigation. If you speak of the details of this meeting, you will be charged with hindering a police investigation as well as violation of Vikare's Law."

Hannah stood and opened the door, ushering Mitchell back inside. "Agent Mitchell will take you to have copies made. Have a good day, Mister and Miss Hebert."

Mitchell gave us his easy smile. "So, what're we copying?"

I wiggled my journal. "A journal of abuses. It's not exactly compelling evidence, but hopefully you guys will be able to get something out of it."

As we went to a nondescript office space to make copies, Mitchell discussed some of the things that were done to me, offering a sympathetic ear. Normally I would have closed down, but he was one more person to listen to my pains, another heart to be swayed. _Never forget the little people_ , I reminded myself.

(BREAK)

By the time we left, I was exhausted. I took off my glasses and rubbed my face, letting out a groan. "How do you handle stuff like this at the Association, Dad? I felt like I was gonna throw up through most of that."

He ruffled my hair and I squawked in protest. "You did great, Little Owl. I'd think you were an old hand at all this if I didn't know better. Now, wanna swing by Fugly Bob's for some comfort food?"

I smiled and nodded. If a war veteran chef didn't know how to make comfort food after a stressful situation, there was no hope. The eponymous Bob stuck to the back of the restaurant as much as he could, since his scars could put people off their appetite. From what I recalled, he was a member of the Army's bomb squad and threw himself in front of a bomb to save his comrades. He survived and was honorably discharged, so he used his G.I. bill or whatever to open a burger joint.

Even during school hours, the place was packed. Word had it that Bob was planning to start a franchise. If he could duplicate his recipes in other states, he'd overtake McDonald's. As we entered, someone called my father's name. "Dan! Hey, man!"

The lanky arm flailing back and forth was attached to a miniature Sasquatch, a shaggy-haired redhead covered in so much coarse hair that he resembled some sort of missing link. Gerry, if I remembered his name correctly, was one of Dad's more troublesome dockworkers. Not that he caused trouble or anything, but because Gerry was relatively frail he couldn't do too much work on the docks, and being a high school dropout his prospects with anything more than menial labor were limited, to put it kindly. Beady brown eyes were nearly hidden by round cheeks as he gave us a beaming smile. When he got older, if he put on some weight, he'd make a killing as a mall Santa.

Dad gave me a one-armed hug. "Wanna order for us, sweetie? I'll check on Gerry." It made sense, the hairy man hadn't had much work with the Association recently; lighter labor or simpler clerical work had dried up in the last few months. I stepped up to the counter.

[PRT Headquarters, Protectorate East-Northeast]

Wilson Renick looked at his coworker and, dare he say, friend. "So, the Heberts?"

Hannah Roosevelt, Miss Militia when in costume, nodded and held up her tablet. "The deceased mother, Annette Hebert nee Rosier." She let that surname hang in the air for a moment.

"And that's the same Rosier family?"

Hannah switched to another tab, showing several surveillance photos of a broad-shouldered man, bald and sporting a brown goatee. "Known associates of 'Kane' before the subject went dark. Annette Rosier herself was sighted at several Lustrumite demonstrations here in Brockton Bay, but interestingly she seems to have cut ties before the real violence started. Based on when she stopped showing up to rallies, and an anonymous tip that led to several arrests, it looks like she flipped on the others."

Wilson pursed his lips. This was worrying. That mysterious man had been loosely associated with numerous suspicious events, not only across the United States but all over the world. "Now the question is if we should believe the girl."

"Sir, if I may, even if this is some sort of resurgence scheme, there's always the chance that it's also factual. I don't think we lose anything if we assign a couple of competent agents to investigate. And, if it turns out Shadow Stalker has been violating her probation and attacking civilians, we need to take action and clean house."

Renick nodded, running a hand through his hair. "It makes me feel like a horrible person that I'm hoping this is a case of corruption and abuse of power. Kane – at least that was his designation – was before your time. There was an undercurrent of paranoia, always wondering if he'd show up in the background of something. He was the intelligence community's bogeyman, and then he suddenly vanished. I want him to stay gone."


	5. Interlude: Inquiries

**A/N:** In response to suggestions from readers, the ending section has been significantly extended.

 **Upheaval 1.x**

Emily Piggot pinched the bridge of her nose. Due to having essentially no kidneys, she tried to keep her stress levels low. "Tried" being the operative word, because Brockton Bay was a hellhole. An outsider, hearing the name of her division, might boggle at the idea of her office handling parahuman crime across the upper half of the Eastern seaboard, but such was not the case. The most important or dangerous locations got names, while every other PRT location was numbered much like generic public schools. It said a lot that Boston – which had to deal with the maniacal bio-Tinker Blasto; the Teeth and their literally insane leader, the Butcher; and the mass of weaponized OCD known as Accord – didn't have a name designation.

Finally reopening her eyes, she took a steadying breath. "Alright, Wilson, run that by me again. I think I've steeled my body for it."

Her much-older subordinate nodded. "According to the words of a young girl and her father, Taylor and Daniel Hebert, we have an abuse of institutional power on our hands. They know Shadow Stalker's civilian identity, and have a _lot_ of accusations against her on Winslow's campus: assault, harassment, theft and destruction of private property… It's a PR nightmare waiting to explode."

"They came to us rather than rushing to smear it on the media. Do we take that as lack of confidence in their case?" Shadow Stalker had been a headache since they'd found her. She chafed at any control or restrictions like some sort of feral beast. If she didn't need every cape she could get on the side of the heroes, Emily would have thrown her in jail without a second thought.

Renick fidgeted. "I suspect this was a sort of olive branch, an attempt to let us deal with it. It felt more like they just wanted this to go away and for the abuses to end, rather than demanding some big settlement."

"...But?"

"This might be old paranoia talking, but I think we should investigate regardless of credibility. Not just because it's Shadow Stalker, but because of who this girl is. She's the daughter of Annette Rosier." Renick let the name hang in the air long enough for his superior to groan.

"Oh, you've got to be shitting me," Piggot shook her head. "The same Rosier family you talk about, who spent time around Kane?"

Wilson Renick nodded again. "I looked through what notes I'd managed to keep, and it seems that Annette was his favorite – possibly a protege of sorts, before he went dark. After Kane vanished and the Rosiers went quiet with him, we wrote it off as a dead end. Annette has since died as well, and from the byplay in the interview it seems that Taylor's attitude is new even to her father."

"So, what? A thirty-years-gone bogeyman suddenly resurfaces to focus on a girl being bullied? If only all intelligence threats were so chivalrous." The sarcasm was almost visibly dripping from Emily's tongue.

"We never did discern a clear goal in my time as an analyst, so maybe," Wilson shrugged. "But it's more likely she discovered some writings or other information to change her attitude. Regardless, if Taylor Hebert has been in some way influenced by Kane, we should keep an eye on her. And investigating this will be a good way to see what she's playing at. Plus, if Shadow Stalker really is abusing students, it'd be best to take care of it before things turn into a scandal."

After several long seconds, Emily nodded. "Assault's good with kids, and as a former black-hat himself he should be in a good position to judge things. Send Battery with him; she's better with protocol. In the meantime, I want you to get Hess' case worker here for a meeting."

Renick suppressed a shudder even as he saluted. Meetings of that nature didn't have people facing Emily Piggot; they met with Lady, the soldier who fought her way free of the Ellisburg massacre.

(BREAK)

Two smartly-dressed agents stepped into Winslow High School, making a beeline for the principal's office. The smaller of the two, a woman, wore a skirt and jacket over white shirt and tie, her dark-brown hair spilling past her shoulders. The man had his lighter brown hair slicked back with gel, his own suit lacking a tie. He rapped a knuckle on the secretary's desk, making the Asian woman look up with a start from her magazine.

"Ethan and Alice Lis, here to see Principal Blackwell. We're expected."

Remembering herself, the secretary looked at her index. Glancing back up, she put on a fixed smile. "Of course, please go in." She went back to her magazine but didn't bother reading – instead, she listened to pick up anything she could from her boss' office. Suits weren't exactly common at Winslow, much less two unknowns from out of the blue.

Ethan was someone who knew, more than most, not to judge based on first impressions. However, the woman behind the desk bearing the placard _Janice Blackwell_ immediately put a sour taste in his mouth. She was skinny in that way that middle-aged women hoped would restore a youthful appearance but would instead make them look on the verge of death. The dirty blonde bowl cut atop her head was reminiscent of a mushroom, and the wrinkles around her mouth were indicative that she often wore a pinched expression as though everything was disgusting and beneath her, a far cry from the simpering smile she now wore. It was saddening that some people would actually be taken in by the beaming expression that didn't reach her pale eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Liss, welcome," she wheedled.

"Lis, actually," Ethan corrected. Normally he didn't bother and his wife was the stickler for little details, but he was already on-edge. Something felt wrong. "It's Polish." Without permission, he and Alice moved in sync and sat in the chairs opposite Blackwell.

"I'll spare you the platitudes, Ms. Blackwell," Alice opened. "We're worried about Sophia. We've gotten some reports about events here at the school which, while unsubstantiated, could lead to a massive scandal implicating our organization as well as you in particular." Best to make Blackwell feel that they were on her side, get her to cooperate. If there was no evidence of abuse, they could maintain a good relationship. If the opposite was true, they'd get her help to tie the noose.

Janice Blackwell did her best to look scandalized. "Sophia? She's been, well, not a model student but she does well enough, keeps to her circle of friends, and tries to stay out of trouble. She does well at track but doesn't really like school overall."

"I hear Winslow can be a harsh place. She doesn't get into any trouble at all?" Ethan pressed a little.

"Well, I didn't say no trouble. You know how high school can be, especially for girls – cliques, competition for top dog, that kind of thing," Blackwell deflected.

Alice nodded, lips pursed in sympathy. "Any girls in particular?"

"I have a lot of students under my care, Mrs. Lis. It's difficult enough to keep an eye on Sophia by herself, let alone track the girls who try to harass her."

"Would you mind if we had a look at the student records, then? We could probably be done faster that way," Ethan offered, hoping she'd take the bait.

"If you think it's necessary, be my guest." Apparently their ploy had succeeded.

Thanking her for her time, the couple made their way to the record rooms.

(BREAK)

"Jesus," Ethan said, sticking out his tongue, "I know the school is shit but you'd think they would at least have an old IBM clunker to file these things," he said. "And do they actually sort these things? Alphabetical my ass. Heston, Helms, Hemsworth, Jimenez!? Oh give me a break!"At long last he held the folder aloft. "Puppy! I found it!"

"Be still my beating heart," Alice replied in a tone dry enough to preserve food for NASA. After a few seconds' stillness, she flicked through another dozen folders, looking for Hebert.

"Hm, doesn't look like anything major is here. A couple arguments that might've escalated, a citation for unsportsmanlike conduct…"

"I've got something more interesting," his wife strode up to him, presenting an empty folder.

"Is this where I use my imagination, hon?"

Alice sighed. "Right, you can't see it as easily. Y'know how my senses sharpen while my power is active?" She pointed to the crease of the folder. "There are old paper flakes in here, from sheets left there for a long time – probably from the start of high school. But they're not here now."

"And if they took out all of Hebert's papers, then there's something to hide, and Sophia's file is likely compromised as well." All humor drained from Ethan's attitude. "Next period is soon. Let's hang here until they're at their next classes, then take a peek at her locker."

After less than a minute of idly waiting, however, he smiled down at her. "Y'know, while we're out of high school and this isn't exactly a broom closet..."

"No, Ethan," Alice rebuked, trying to conceal her impish smile.

Eventually the bell rang, interrupting the couple's game of "six degrees of Kevin Bacon." Once footsteps no longer echoed in the halls, they set out. Ethan smirked, stooping a little to properly reach the combination lock. "Ever since the advent of parahumans," he started in one of his dramatic speeches, "security companies have been upping their game to remain competitive. Even combination locks have gotten smoother, harder to crack just by guessing. But for a kineticist..." He was cut off by the audible and tactile clicking of the dial. "Right, or this school could be so cheap that they're still using lockers from the early 80s or even further back."

"Hurry up, you imbecile."

"Fine, fine. No appreciation for artistry..." He spun the lock, not even bothering to look at the numbers. Assault was a kinetic manipulator, able to take in blunt force and then channel it back out. However, this also granted him a superhuman sense of touch, feeling the slightest vibrations in an object. In less than two seconds he had the locker open.

Nothing jumped out at them as incriminating. Some of her books had idle doodles in the margins but otherwise, without a thorough search that they currently lacked the time to complete, they found nothing of use. "Well," Alice mused, "if she really is causing trouble, maybe she's violating her parole as well. You know how much she resented being forced to use tranquilizer bolts. If you had to hide lethal ammo, where would you put it?"

Ethan tapped his chin for a moment. "I wouldn't put it all in one place; too easy for somebody to find it and leave me lacking. I'd obviously store some at home, maybe I'd be ballsy enough to try to hide them in my room at the office, but mostly it'd be here at school. I expect she'd store them in places inaccessible to others – vent offshoots, hollows in locker room walls where there's no electrical wiring…the bottom of her locker." He squatted down low, pressing his fingers against the seam where the lockers met the floor. "Little help, hon?" A power-enhanced smack to his ass left him grinning and able to channel the energy through his body, slipping his fingers under the locker block and lifting them all slightly off the ground. "Any higher and I'll probably break something. See anything, hon?"

Spending her charged power to enhance her vision again, Alice pressed her head to the floor. Her hand shot out and she grabbed something long and black – a cheap plastic folding case, similar to the old leather rolls that would hold thieves' tools. Opening it up, she found six broadhead bolts. She pressed the open roll to the locker, taking out a small camera and snapping a photo, making sure to get the locker number in the picture. Then she rolled it back up and replaced it under the locker in almost the exact same position. She looked back to her husband, whose expression was hollow.

"She killed a guy. Possibly more than the one we know of, and crippled several for life. And she's still going out with these, against the rules, and looking to, what, kill more?"

Alice pinched the bridge of her nose. "Come on, Ethan. We need to make our report."

(BREAK)

While she was not having a good day, per se, Emily Piggot was feeling a little better now that she'd thrown someone into a cell. She looked at Battery and Assault sitting opposite her. "Well then, we've got a confession from Jensen that she conspired with Blackwell to cover up Shadow Stalker's violent tendencies, lethal ammunition, and Hebert's circumstantial evidence. Call Hess in after school and have Armsmaster set up an electrified collar."

Sophia Hess never did show up for the so-called emergency meeting, nor did she appear at school the next day. None of her belongings had been taken from her home. The Wards were informed of the situation and told to be on the alert.

Instead, the next day would see her within an underground base, a lair of concrete and steel that she'd had no idea existed beneath the southern part of Brockton Bay. A sudden message out of the blue the previous night – on her personal cell, no less – had caused her to flee her house. A second message led her to a street corner, where a blue sedan was waiting.

The passenger side window opened up and a man with enormous coke-bottle glasses poked his head out. "Miss Hess? Show me your cell phone so I can confirm your identity, please." Considering she'd at least taken the time to don her Shadow Stalker costume, being called out by her real name caused her to freeze in her tracks. After a moment of consideration, she presented her phone. The man checked the message, then nodded. "Please get in. You have an important meeting and it wouldn't do to be late."

Sophia climbed in and promptly stuck out her hand. "Gimme my phone back."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Miss Hess," Glasses replied. "Phones are far too easy to track." He smoothly disassembled her phone and tossed it out the window. She drew her crossbow and pointed it directly at his face to no reaction from the man. "You'll need to get rid of your PRT phone as well, if you haven't already done so."

Now even more confused, Sophia relaxed her grip on the trigger. "Left that at home when the message came. How'd you know they found my stash under my locker?"

"We have contacts within the PRT, concerned citizens unhappy with how the city is being managed," came the smooth answer. The car eased onto the street and traveled south. Upon arrival at a nondescript laundromat, Glasses nodded to the manager and led Sophia into the back to a trapdoor that revealed a small freight elevator. "If you please?" He gestured for her to step on, joining her after she did so.

"So what is all this?" she asked as the trapdoor closed over them, leaving the pair in the near-darkness of orange hazard lights.

"I'm only a worker, not a salesman, so I'm probably not the best person to explain everything that's going on. Suffice to say we're a group of people who don't want to see our home ravaged by the gangs while the Protectorate pretends to watch over us."

A pair of reinforced steel doors slid open, revealing a genuine underground lair. Uniformed soldiers rolled down the halls on what looked like four-wheeled versions of Segways, and Sophia recognized those uniforms from the primers she'd been given. "You work for Coil," she stated, accusation in her voice. Coil's organization behaved differently from the other gangs. They kept their capes on the front lines, throwing power around and jostling for territory. It was unknown if Coil even was a parahuman, and his forces didn't fight for territory. Like the Merchants, they spread into areas that were contested, especially when heavy fighting had forced the gangs to evacuate. Unlike the Merchants, Coil's soldiers – and there was no question that they were soldiers – were able to hold their territory with lethal efficiency.

"Yes we do," he answered simply, motioning for her to keep up.

She kept up, alright, pressing her crossbow into his spine. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."

"I'll give you two," came the cheerful reply. "First, we'll kill you immediately after. Second, who says we're villains? The PRT, who are now looking to arrest you?"

She bit her lip behind her mask. "Fuck. This better be worth it."

Glasses led her through the base and to another reinforced set of steel doors. Those opened to reveal a different set of blast doors, which finally opened to a simple office door labeled _Management_.

Coil, she presumed, sat behind an extravagant mahogany desk. Pictures of the man out and about were rare, but the camera really did add weight. He looked like he should be dead with how thin he was. "Shadow Stalker, please take a seat."

She remained standing.

If he was peeved, he didn't show it. "I'll start with a simple question: do you think you did more good for the city working with the Wards, or as an independent hero?"

"I always work better on my own," she said after a moment's silence.

"That's debatable. What's not is that you do best when not constrained by arbitrary rules. Your house isn't in the best of neighborhoods. Do you see the Protectorate hunting down the criminals who run rampant just outside your door? Or do they waste time patrolling the Boardwalk and other high-class areas?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The Protectorate exists to give people the illusion of safety, but it's all about power. They want to be the ones in charge, the ones with the public goodwill, and the ones who get to decide what is good. So long as they come out looking good, they care little for the truth." Coil leaned forward. "The majority of villains captured by the Protectorate are, in truth, defeated by other villains. The Protectorate only claims the win afterward, when the actual victors have fled to recover.

"I rescued you and brought you here because you understand the truth: smiling for the crowds doesn't put down the criminals who are sucking this city dry. A brief stay in prison won't do anything to deter or reform a parahuman villain. And those who say otherwise are themselves labeled villains. Like you."

"Get to the point or shut the fuck up," Sophia snarled.

"Actions rather than words, just what I like to see. Very well. I'm offering you a base of operations. I'll supply you with bolts and other equipment you require; you'll get access to our cafeteria and a bedroom of your own. In exchange for this, I want you to go out and actually clean up this city."


	6. Upheaval 04

**Upheaval 1.04**

School was, at least for me, surprisingly subdued. Emma gave me a death glare from a distance but didn't approach. Madison seemed lost without leadership, and Sophia was creeping on me. When we had classes together, and even during lunch, I could always feel her eyes on me. My one consolation was that the vultures didn't pick up the slack. Apparently my scolding of gang members left a lot of the students conflicted about me and a little nervous overall: if I was willing to argue with the Hitler Youth and the...Azn Little Boys, maybe? I wasn't sure about a derogatory nickname for them. Point was, if I was able to argue with them and come out unscathed, people were rightly worried that giving me shit might draw attention from the kids who everybody knew carried knives. And I certainly wasn't going to tell them that I'd been one step away from pissing myself with fear and had only escaped by the skin of my teeth.

It was amazing what a couple of fights and an argument could do to upset the local politics, really. I mused to myself that Emma might never make it to top bitch again after her little breakdown. The queen bee doesn't suddenly go feral and attack a peon, after all. On the way to lunch I caught sight of a pair of smartly-dressed adults moving through the hall; I decided to file that away for later in case anything came up.

In the cafeteria, I actually felt confident enough to eat at a table again rather than hiding with a pre-made lunch or scarfing down the mystery meat and rushing out. I sat about in the middle, partway between the sections claimed by junior E88 and ABB. And, sure enough, Princess Violent sat down across from me.

"So you show some backbone, then the very next day you're out of school. Have a panic attack, Hebert?"

"Don't you have some babies to eat or puppies to kick, Hess?" She didn't move, so I rolled my eyes and gestured to my scratches. "Most of your shit isn't worth my time. Emma scratching up my face was enough to get my dad worried, though, so he took me for shots to make sure I didn't catch whatever diseases she has."

She scoffed. "Oh please. You hide what we do because you're too weak to fight back, not because you're so superior."

"Or perhaps it's because I care about my father and don't want him stressing over nothing. Do you even have family, or did you just congeal in a slaughterhouse somewhere?"

Her lip curled into a sneer. "See? That's what I don't get. All of a sudden you're full of insults and fire that you never had before. That doesn't just change one day."

I let out a long-suffering sigh. "For once in your life, Sophia, you're right. I already told you the reason but since it didn't involve violence or your lesbian fantasies over Emma, I'm sure you forgot it. Emma was my best friend, my sister in all but blood. I'd been hoping that she'd get whatever this is out of her system and come back to her senses." I leaned forward on the table, trying to project whatever menace I could. "But she crossed a line. She defiled one of the last tangible connections I have to my mother. And I know you helped her, but you're just in it for the kicks. You're a thug, not a traitor.

"At that point, all bets were off. No more taking it, no more mercy." My voice dropped to a hiss and I was glad to let all my bottled-up hatred ooze out. "You shit on my porch and I will _bury_ you. Are we clear, Soph?"

Of all the responses I'd been expecting, her almost playful grin was not one of them. "You better be able to back up those words, Hebert." Oddly, I didn't feel the usual threat or promise of violence behind her words.

"If you're expecting a one-on-one brawl, you'll be sorely disappointed. I fight dirty, Hess." Dirtier than she could imagine. I knew the PRT was at the very least investigating her behavior, and I was nearly certain that they'd find enough evidence to prove her malicious actions. And even if they didn't? If they let me down like every other authority figure? I still knew her identity and could use that information for a more vicious kind of justice. I'd won this fight before even sitting down today.

She smirked. "Watch that mouth of yours, Hebert. Somebody might try to shut you up one of these days." And with that, she rose and left me in relative peace.

I would have finished my meal undisturbed if my personal stalker hadn't decided to step in. Greg fucking Veder, the boy who supposedly idolized me yet never backed me up when I went to the principal or teachers, sat down beside me.

"Holy crap, Taylor, since when are you and Sophia Hess all buddy-buddy?"

I didn't bother to disguise my groan of annoyance. "We're not, Greg. That was politics, like the Cold War. We traded threats and she left."

"I just thought, since the last time she talked to you and you tackled her, you'd kick her ass again–"

I opted to cut off his ramblings then and there. "Greg, I didn't 'kick her ass'. I'm not a fighter and the only reason she didn't maul me is because I somehow impressed her. She's a dangerous psychopath who has her own fucked-up code of honor." I looked him in the eyes, trying to get my message through. "If you're not physically strong enough to defend yourself, you have to get power in other ways. The only way you stop people like that from exploiting you is to make yourself so dangerous – one way or another – that it's unreasonable for them to start shit with you. One of those ways is for lots of weaker people to stick together."

"Like the Constructicons into Devastator!" _Lord, give me strength…_

"Sure, why not? The problem is, it can work the other way too. If nobody will back you up, then you're an even more appealing target." I saw it wasn't clicking in his head. "Like how you always run away whenever I try talking about the abuse Sophia and company gave me."

His face dropped so fast I was worried it was going to pop his jawbone off and clatter it onto the ground. "But...I'm picked on too. If I spoke up, I'd just be more of a target."

"And where'd that get you? You're still being bullied and you've never had the guts to even speak up for yourself. The least a person can do is lend their voice to a cause they believe in. Maybe if you'd stood up when I needed you, we could have gotten more of the kids who've been abused, brought everyone up and made it too big of a scandal for Winslow to ignore. Instead, we're just a bunch of annoying kids without any unifying power." I paused and let out another sigh, this one softer. "Greg, I'm not saying you're a bad person. You're just a little weak-willed, but you weren't there when I really needed you. I'm not taking their abuse anymore: I'm figuring out ways to oppose them. You should do the same. You're a smart guy – you have so many games and stats memorized, I'm sure you could figure something out. The important thing is we have to be better than them. Starting a fight or rioting won't prove anything. You can't fix the world through force."

I turned back to my food, wordlessly dismissing him.

(BREAK)

Of course, the next day wasn't so calm. Even on weekends, Dad had to stop by the office and check on things. He was officially the union rep for the Association, but in practice he ran everything. My quiet Saturday was interrupted at noon by the doorbell. The man on the other side of the door was dressed like some sort of utility workman but flashed a PRT badge through the peephole. If it hadn't been for the badge, I might have suspected Empire with his short-cropped blond hair, sturdy build and rather military posture. I cracked the door just enough to speak with him without shouting and alerting the neighborhood. "My dad's not here right now. Is...is this important?"

"Mostly checking up on you, but I imagine the news will be significant to you and thought you should be warned." His eyes seemed sincere, but I wasn't about to let a strange man into my house when I was home alone.

"I'm alright and my father should be back later. Can we call you and arrange a meeting?" My eyes trailed past him as Dad's clunker of a truck trundled into the driveway. He usually was home a little later, and normally I'd be glad to have him back. Our relationship was getting better but even when we were less social we'd still spend the weekends watching old movies most of the time. As it was, I had no idea how things were going to go.

I was impressed by my father's reaction. He casually retrieved his heavy toolbox from its mounting in the bed of the truck; he never brought it in, but I suspected he planned to use it as a weapon if things went bad. "Hey sweetie," he said with a wan smile. "Who's this?"

The man subtly brandished his badge. "Jakob Slavik, PRT. I have some news for you that I suspect you'll find important. May I come in, please?"

"Alright, come in," he said. I opened the door and Dad entered behind Slavik, still ready to smash him with that toolbox.

"Mr. Hebert," the trooper said as I shut the door behind my father, "this was as much a wellness check as an update. Shadow Stalker never appeared for her scheduled meeting. Her bed is untouched, her official phone was found in the gutter near her house, and her personal phone went dark – meaning it was dismantled or destroyed." He held up a hand to forestall our questions and outbursts. "In any law enforcement agency, you have to contend with leaks. However, none of us had expected that someone would take an interest in Shadow Stalker. We're operating on the hypothesis that one of our leakers tipped her off and, from how she's dropped off the grid, we suspect she had help escaping. As we didn't know how much information was released, we wanted to check in on you and make sure she hadn't attempted retribution."

Dad shook his head. "Okay, back the fuck up and explain before I hit you with this." He shook the toolbox a little. "You lost your little psychopath Ward just after we reported her actions to you? And you expect us to believe this bullshit?" I could see the tendons in his neck tightening. Dad's side of the family had a notorious temper that he'd inherited from his mother. He'd always done his best to rein it in, but I'd overheard him, Kurt and some of the other dockworkers discussing fights he'd been in, even recently.

Slavik looked taken aback before he processed Dad's argument. "Ah. Hell, it does kind of look like that, doesn't it? No, we're not covering for her. If we were, she'd be at best transferred to another division and we sure wouldn't invent some scandal like this. What's the point if the excuse makes us sound even worse? No, we found evidence that she'd violated her probation. We were gonna throw the book at her, then she up and vanished.

"That said, we'll need you to come in at your earliest opportunity to sign some NDAs and contact agreements. Shadow Stalker is an internal investigation and a potential PR nightmare, and as much as you might want to see her punished in public, it would do massive harm to the Protectorate's reputation and end up making the Bay worse off than it is now. Rest assured, juvenile hall is now off the table. She's headed for the supermax wing of Souza-Baranowski." Slavik looked a little nervous. "I'm technically not supposed to have told you that, so keep it under your hat, but I figured you could use a little good news."

"You said something about contact agreements?" I interjected. "What's that about?"

"Ah, right. That's basically a special code to get you fast-tracked to PRT response in case of retributive action by a parahuman. Usually reserved for witnesses in gang trials, but we figured it'd apply here as well."

My father was still scrutinizing the blond man. "You sure seem to be bending over backward for us. What's the reason?"

Slavik chuckled, unfazed by the distrust. "Cards on the table? Even if we found evidence of her breaking her parole, we'd push for a quiet settlement for assault and harassment, ship Shadow Stalker off to a Simurgh containment zone for 'training and guard duty', while Sophia Hess would be stuffed in juvie and we'd wash our hands of you with a bunch of NDAs. However, when she went rogue this became a whole different ballgame. Now we're dealing with a violent wildcard who has unknown backing, possibly gang related or another faction from outside the state. Shadow Stalker's not the most valuable player, so it's not like gangs were clamoring to snap her up."

"But showing that the PRT can't keep control over their Wards would be a nice black eye to the Protectorate," I mused.

"Got it in one. So we want to keep this quiet, root her out and throw her in a cell. After that? We can discuss any compensation for Stalker's actions. But first we need to clean house, figure out who leaked what. For all we know, her handler was in on all this. Rest assured she's the first person we're questioning."

Tension was bleeding from my body, yet Dad was still rigid. "You're awfully forthcoming with all of this. Why is that?"

Slavik looked him in the eyes. "I like to see justice done. I want to fix things, make people safer. In this case, we lose nothing through me telling you these things and I'm guessing you'll be more likely to cooperate if I'm straight with you. I'm a squad leader for a reason – the Director trusts my judgment, and I know we'll all be a lot safer if you're willing to work with us."

"We'll have to discuss this together before settling on anything. If you don't mind?" Dad nodded to the door. Slavik smiled and nodded, leaving as he'd come. My father turned back to me. "Jesus, this is all so much. Now we've got a criminal who might be after us, the PRT's got leaks… Sweetheart, I'm not sure if we should go through with all this."

I thought about what I'd told Greg the previous day. "I don't like it either, but he was right that bad press for the PRT is only going to make things worse. Do I think they're incompetent and self-interested? Yes. But they're also the only thing preserving the status quo. While the status quo sucks, chaos would be a lot worse. For now, we can't afford to fight them. And besides, if they turn out to be worse than we think, we still have the info. Signing an NDA doesn't magically wipe the knowledge from our brains or anything, does it?"

My father shuddered. "With all the capes out there? I'd be worried they have exactly that. Still, you make a good point. I don't trust them but we need them for now. Okay...you want to go later today, or tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. Let's sleep on it and see if we change our minds in the morning." I had a knot in my stomach that had yet to untie. "...Dad? Do you think we should get a gun or something?"

He chuckled. "Little Owl, did you really think we'd live in this city unprotected?" He led me to his bedroom and into his closet, where he slid open a secret wall panel. "Your mother's idea," Dad said with a smirk. "She didn't want any burglars to find this and be armed with our weapons." Inside the wall panel was a tall, narrow gun safe. Inside were two firearms: a hefty revolver and a double-barrel shotgun.

"I don't like guns," he said in a subdued voice, "but your grandpa taught me how to shoot when I was younger just in case. Thus far we've been lucky and the gangs don't really bother with the Union, but…" He sighed. "After we meet with the PRT tomorrow, I'll take you to the shooting range. You should learn how to use these."

I bit my lip. For a lot of kids, especially in a gang-infested city like Brockton Bay, learning to shoot would probably be exciting. To me, it solidified that I was most likely in mortal danger.


	7. Upheaval 05

**Upheaval 1.05**

One of the things that kept Brockton Bay's winters mild – at least, mild for the Northeast Coast – was the smattering of large hills and small mountains (what was the distinction between the two, again? There was that movie about the hill-mountain in Scotland, but did that apply here?) to the west. A northwestern pass had originally been used to ship freight until the advent of cars, at which point they blasted a tunnel through the rock and turned the old train tracks into a highway. To the southwest, the ground was too uneven and loaded with bedrock to be of much use for any large-scale construction. Instead we had a few different leisure locales, including a small golf course and the shooting range.

I had my hair tied back, as Dad had recommended I not risk getting it tangled in the earmuffs. Firing a gun without any sort of protection for your ears could cause hearing loss almost instantly, and I was too young to have fucked-up eyes _and_ ears. Despite how long it had been for him, my father went through the motions based on muscle memory from decades past. He handed me the enormous protective goggles to place over my glasses and set me up at a firing stall-thing.

"When you're first learning to shoot, you'll want to take a wide, sturdy stance. Of course, if anybody's ever shooting at you, you don't want to present that big of a target, but for now I'd prefer you didn't hurt yourself." He set the pistol in my hands. It was heavier than I'd expected. His long fingers manipulated my own skinny digits, placing my right index finger straight out to rest on the trigger guard. "Never, _ever_ place your finger on the trigger unless you're getting ready to shoot. Something can always go wrong. You're holding a weapon whose sole purpose is to kill. Show it the respect and healthy fear something like that warrants."

"You sound like a drill instructor," I tried to quip. To be honest, his intensity was making me nervous. I felt him bend the fingers of my left hand around my right, partly cupping the underside of my more dextrous hand, and he squeezed my grip tight enough to hurt a little.

"You're my daughter, Taylor. I'm not going to let myself wallow while you're in danger. Not anymore. There are dangerous people out there, ones who might take an interest in you now. You need to know how to defend yourself. Now," he squeezed my hand again when I loosened my grip, "keep a firm grip on your hand. You're not just stabilizing: the kickback from the gun will make it want to pop up. If you don't hold onto it with both hands, your wrist could snap back. I've seen some arrogant shooters have the gun flip out of their grip and smack them in the face. You're helping to keep your shot from going down, or going up." He studied my grip and adjusted it a bit, sliding my right hand a bit further down the handle.

"The top slides back," he said, pointing at the spot between his thumb and forefinger. "If your hand's too high, it'll bite into the webbing. Hurts like crazy," he said with the wince of someone who'd experienced that. "Keep your legs about shoulder-width apart, bend your knees just a bit. You want to be solid."

I dug my feet into the floor as best I could, squaring my shoulders and bracing myself. At this point I expected the kickback to throw me off my feet. Dad gave me a rough clap on the shoulder and I almost stumbled but braced against it.

"Good girl," he smiled, then pushed down on my elbows. "Keep your arms from locking up. I know it's counterintuitive, but if your arms are too rigid you'll experience more recoil and your shot can suffer. Now, the way my dad taught me to shoot was that, because of the fact that we have two eyes, drawing an invisible line to the target won't work. Binocular sight is supposed to help us judge distance, not make straight lines. Instead, focus on the sights. You see the three dots? You want them to all be level with each other, and the one in the middle _perfectly_ in the middle. Focus on that to the exception of all else: the rear sights – the ones to the sides of that middle sight – and the target itself should be a little blurry. That middle sight is your anchor. Place it over your target, then slip your finger on the trigger and squeeze it. Don't pull it or jerk it. You want a steady, even pressure on the trigger." He stepped back, putting my earmuffs on my head. "Lastly, it's good to exhale when you shoot. Not sure why, but it usually helps."

I nodded, both to him and myself, and stared at the target. It was a black silhouette of a human figure, numerous lines and little numbers and other little details adorning it. I ignored all of those. There was a plus shape at about where the man's solar plexus would be. I stared at it, focusing on that as the target. My hands were already sweating slightly. My finger rested against the cold metal of the pistol and I angled the gun, resting the sight over that plus shape. The world blurred slightly, everything falling away except for my target and the iron sights. I slipped my finger to rest against the trigger and squeezed my left hand tightly around my right. Then, I tightened my finger, letting out a breath through gritted teeth.

The sound was overwhelming even with my protection on, and I was thankful my teeth were already together or I might have bitten off my tongue. My arms tried to snap up and I pressed my right hand into my left palm, pushing and pulling my way against the kickback. I felt the impact from the shot reverberating through my arms. It hurt.

Dad stepped into my field of vision and pulled my earmuff to the side. "You're a natural," he grinned, pointing to the target. While I hadn't hit it in the center, my shot had still hit the silhouette: if it had been a man, I'd have struck him in the right bicep. Probably a debilitating shot.

I went through my motions in my head. "I pushed too hard with my right hand, bent the shot to the left."

"Very good. You'll need to learn to compensate, but for your first couple of shots I wanted you to be safe rather than accurate."

We went through the rest of the magazine, Dad giving advice after each shot, and by the end I'd managed to at least clip the torso with three shots in a row.

"Next," my father said as he dismantled the pistol, "is the shotgun. Now, this is a bit of a problem because most shotguns are sized for men. You're tall, so the length isn't as much of an issue, but the way the stock's built is definitely a problem. For now, it's just to see if you take to the gun, so…" He gestured to the back end of the weapon and I had to control a giggling fit. Dad had stacked two Dr. Scholl's insole pads and duct-taped them to the butt of the gun! I'd always wondered why the phrase went that Necessity was the mother of Invention, because the most entertaining inventions usually came from dads.

He slid the weapon into my hands. "Okay, make sure the butt is flush with your shoulder, rest your cheek on the stock so you're looking down the iron with your right eye… Hand on the trigger there, keep your finger – yeah, like that, mhm… Hold on tight with your left about...here. Shotguns are simpler in that you just point and shoot. They have clay-pigeon shooting days here, so if you like the gun we can get you one fitted for a woman and you can try your hand at it." Dad gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Now brace yourself. The kickback from a shotgun is insane and it _will_ hurt. In fact, one or two shots and you'll probably be wiped out for the rest of the day. But in the event of a robbery, nothing beats the good old street howitzer."

 _Street howitzer?_ I'd have to ponder on that later. I lined up the shot, squeezed the trigger, and almost passed out. The impact in my shoulder somehow knocked the wind out of me and I toppled back. Dad interposed himself and let me fall against him, catching the gun and pointing it skyward. Thankfully it didn't go off, but I know we were both terrified it might.

"Yeah," I wheezed after slumping to the floor, "maybe a shotgun's not the best idea if you're a girl built like a scarecrow."

I looked up to see Dad's shoulders sag in relief. "I guess so," he said. "I'll leave you to be the marksman of the family, and I'll handle the shotgun."

(BREAK)

To say that my feelings were conflicted on the drive home would be an understatement. On the one hand, I felt more confident knowing that I was a good shot, learning to be a marksman (markswoman?); on the other hand, things really hit home – I was learning how to use a weapon whose sole purpose is to kill, and I needed to learn to use it because there were threats out there that might take notice of me.

"...Dad?" My voice shattered the awkward silence and he jerked a little, only barely avoiding a swerve. "How do you deal with it? Capes, I mean." I wasn't blind to my father's own problems, which was one of the reasons I'd kept him in the dark about my own. The gangs were often sniffing around the docks. While the northern coastline was mostly ABB territory, the bay itself was still free.

The Protectorate base sat in the middle of the bay, an enormous modified oil rig. I think it was supposed to serve the metaphorical role of a lighthouse, a beacon of hope and a symbol that they were watching. Unfortunately, since the majority of the bay was clogged with the Boat Graveyard, it instead often seemed like a castle with a moat, with us peasants on the outside. The Graveyard was the bane of Brockton Bay's shipping industry, and with it a lot of jobs and economic opportunities dried up. The first ships sank when Leviathan appeared, his presence altering oceanic currents to signal his grand entrance into the world at large. After that, more ships were sunk in protest by angry fishermen and freight shippers when the city cut their contracts. A sort of economic murder-suicide. There were still areas that could receive smaller shipments, and the coast was a hotly contested area for the gangs to meet with smugglers.

My father took in a deep breath. "It's not easy. In my case, it's actually lucky that the Association is down on its luck – makes us too much trouble for little reward, so the Empire and ABB mostly leave us alone. Biggest threat from them is if we stumble on a smuggling operation. The Merchants, though? They're always looking for new territory, recruits and materials. I've never seen one of their capes, but the street thugs come by often enough to be a typical problem."

"So, how do you…?"

"We're a bunch of bitter old men clinging to the past, honey," he chuckled with a tiny amount of mirth. "Anger and desperation and powerful drugs by themselves, but add nostalgia to the mix? We keep a couple guns on-site but we haven't needed them. There's always more of us than there are of them, and after we sent a bunch to the hospital they've been more cautious." He trailed off for a moment, making a turn more sharply than was necessary. "It's not sustainable, I know that. Eventually we're going to have to escalate further, and they have a lot more firepower than we do. But it's not in the nature of hardworking men to abandon what they love, even after it's gone."

I didn't say it, but he seemed to read my mind.

"Yeah, like your mom. And just like the docks, we can cling to what we had to the detriment of what we still have." He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Taylor," he whispered.

(BREAK)

After we went home and had a snack, I steeled myself. Standing up from the couch, I turned to face my father. "Dad, we should go to the PRT and sign those forms. I was thinking on it last night – Sophia doesn't know I'm the one who outed her, or at least she didn't. If she find out, she's almost certain to come after us. Shadow Stalker's arrows can go straight through solid objects. I'll feel a lot safer having people looking out for us who know how to shut her down."

He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning. "It's the best of bad options, but you're right. I just hate that we have to get under the thumb of bureaucracy. They'll act like this is some great gift to us. And that means they won't take any responsibility for _their_ fuckups that led to this situation."

I nodded, my mouth set in a grim line. While Dad wasn't exactly versed in cape culture he was most definitely experienced with bureaucratic nightmares. Barring some miracle, these organizations were always concerned with reputation and appearances rather than justice. "We'll have to spin it that we're giving them a gift instead. Any paper would love a story on a PRT coverup where they protected a Ward who was assaulting an innocent girl and destroying her property. Make it where they have a lot to thank us for.

"The only thing I want out of this is a transfer out of Winslow. Honestly, I'm not sure I trust Arcadia since the Wards and New Wave go there, but I doubt we can swing for them to pay Immaculata's tuition."

While ostensibly a Christian institution, the private high school was more known as the rich kids' school. It didn't have the prestige or the opportunities that came from being sponsored by government superheroes like Arcadia did, but Immaculata students had their own reasons to be smug: you either had to know somebody, or your grades had to be truly stellar, just to be considered for acceptance. And then, of course, you had to be able to pay the tuition. I'd looked it up during my Disney-Princess wishing to escape my cage, and the annual fee wasn't exactly colossal – the social or academic requirements were the bigger barriers – but it was still solidly outside our price range.

Dad closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "You think you'd prefer Immaculata?"

I wasn't sure why he seemed to tense. "I'm guessing. But do I need to remind you that we're barely making ends meet as it is? There's no way we could possibly swing the tuition fees."

He nodded, eyes still closed, gloomy as a man off to the gallows. "Go get changed, kiddo. I have to make a call."

Up in my room, I was rummaging through my closet and dresser for some appropriate clothes. Most of my clothes tended to be baggy, hiding my utter lack of feminine development. In this case, I wanted to project an air of a confident young woman rather than a shlubby teenager resenting puberty. I settled on a white blouse, a cute little tan vest that I hadn't even realized I had – maybe it was something of Mom's? – and simple blue jeans.

When I came back down, Dad was smiling. I could see the relief on his face and in his stance. "Everything go okay?" I asked, wanting to confirm his seeming emotional whiplash as well as try to find out who he'd called.

"You look great, sweetie." I was worried he was going to dodge the question, but he stroked his fingers through my hair and undid a tangle, leading me to the truck. "If we can get Winslow to approve the transfer, your grandma will pay the tuition."

"You talked to Grandma?" Just the fact that he'd called her was shock enough. That she'd been willing to talk and had even granted his request was flooring. The few times I'd visited my grandmother, it had always been with Mom alone. As I got older, I was able to weasel some little information out of my parents: apparently Mom's parents, especially her mother, had thought she was marrying well beneath her. The Rosiers weren't exactly boo-koo bucks, but the name had a lot of old influence across the East Coast. They'd wanted her to marry a senator or something, or maybe become a politician herself. Instead, she got traumatized by Lustrum's movement and settled into teaching English.

In short, there was a cold war between the Rosiers and the Heberts, and only Mom and I were allowed to traverse no-man's land.

"She was as shocked as you," he chuckled. "I barely managed to keep her from hanging up when I told her it was about you." The old workhorse of a truck rumbled its way down the drive and into the street. "No surprise she knows some people on Immaculata's board. When I told her some of the things that had happened at Winslow, and that you only went there to stay with Emma, she offered to pay the tuition." He shifted into the next gear and then squeezed my shoulder. "She still hates me, of course, but you're her granddaughter. We can agree on a few things, like wanting you to be happy."

I beamed. "You realize, of course, you'll have to bring me over to visit now."

He let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Oh god, I'm sure she'll send the dogs after me."


	8. Interlude: Messages

**A/N:** The intended chapter just wasn't working for me. Instead of hemming and hawing over writer's block, I realized that there wasn't really that much to cover. So instead I'm using this interlude to cap off arc 1 and moving on.

 **Interlude 1.y**

Her feet pounded a steady rhythm on the rooftops, smoothly stepping up onto rims and railings before launching herself off. She only shifted into her shadow form when she realized she wouldn't make the jump: it was too exhilarating to hurtle through the air and just barely catch herself.

She didn't trust Coil as far as the could throw him with only her ass cheeks, but his backing allowed her to get back on the street doing what she did best. Plus, once the city got cleaner she'd put a bolt in his brain if he started to get uppity. For now, though…

Changing into her Breaker state, she drifted down into the shadows of the alleyway and took up a position behind a dumpster. Once she smelled the contents, she opted to remain as shadow until she needed to be tangible.

A white guy and a black guy meeting in a dark alley was rarely a good thing. In Brockton Bay, one of the cape capitals of the United States and the biggest Nazi hub this side of the Atlantic, it sent up even worse signals. Instead of exchanging blows, however, they exchanged a roll of bills and a white bag – the kind used in shipping. The black guy didn't even count the money before stuffing it into one of the pockets of his cargo pants. The white man, on the other hand, hefted the bag in his palm a couple of times, then opened it.

"Shit, Ray, there's like only half the usual in here! What gives?" Amazingly, he didn't immediately go for a weapon. Considering that the black guy – Ray – hadn't even checked the payment, they must have some degree of professional trust.

Ray gave a depressed shrug. "Our biggest out-of-town supplier got their dumb ass busted. Nobody else can sell in bulk, so we had to buy from a bunch of little guys. Until we get this shit sorted, it's gonna be pricier than usual."

The customer grimaced. "Then gimme my money back; I'm not gonna blow that much on this little."

Ray's eyes darted around in the darkness, as if he was worried some of his fellow gang members (almost assuredly Merchants: the drug trade was pretty tightly controlled by the three gangs, Merchants in particular) were spying on him. "...Alright," he whispered, shifting closer, "I'll knock twenty off this time 'cause you didn't know." He unrolled the bills and pulled out four fivers, handing them back to his buyer. "I gotta move this stuff, but you're a good guy."

These two weren't exactly how she wanted to make her grand re-entrance, but it could work. Shadow Stalker drifted to the top of the dumpster, shifting back to solidity as her foot hit the lid. A couple of rapid steps built up speed, her targets having just enough time to look over before she launched into a flying kick and caught the white guy in the jaw. Her entire body weight hitting him there caused his neck to whip to the side, teeth crashing together with enough force that several probably shattered, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

She slid over him, one hand tangled in her cloak to keep it beneath her and reduce road rash. Kipping to her feet, Shadow Stalker launched a bolt from her left hand's crossbow that narrowly missed the dealer's knee. Snarling to herself, she withdrew her other crossbow. It snapped into place, the bolt already loaded. This one flew true, biting through his thigh and embedding into his femur. He made a bleating noise like a deep-voiced goat, clutching his leg.

Ray stared at the bolt, equal parts figurative shock and medical shock. "Wh-what the fuck?" he finally managed to whimper, eyes still fixed on the projectile. "Wards ain't s'posed to use real shit!"

Two clicks sounded out when she reloaded her crossbows, just in case he decided to get cute. "That's right, fucker. Because I'm not a Ward anymore." She placed her left-hand weapon under his chin, tilting his face up to look into her mask. "You're only alive because I need a messenger. You think you're untouchable, that the PRT's too weak to take any real action against the gangs. You're right." The confusion in his eyes was rather amusing. "That's why I'm not with them anymore. You run back to your pimp and tell him to spread the word: after tonight, I see one of you stains, I'm ending you. This is _my_ city, and I'm tired of having you shit it up."

Digging into his pocket, she withdrew the roll of cash Ray had been paid. Then she walked backward until she stood over the unconscious man, ripping open the bag and pouring the power – cocaine, heroin, she didn't know or care which – onto the asphalt. "You hobble back to your box and hope they can patch you up." With a smooth leap and a transition to shadow, she hit the roof running. This wasn't enough for her return. If she was going to send a message, she needed to hit something bigger.

An advantage of no longer attending school was that her schedule was much more open. Sophia didn't have to worry about taking the bus home and finishing her homework, and she didn't need to be back home in time to get some sleep before the next day of boredom. From the moment it got dark enough to hide, she could be patrolling, hunting down scum.

(BREAK)

Gliding across an intersection, she began moving through Empire territory. The Asians weren't as active as she would've liked, harder to find a street crime in progress. They handled most of their stuff behind closed doors – protection money, prostitution, human trafficking. Less so with street-level drugs or muggings. The Empire, on the other hand, had an ideological agenda to push. Always on the hunt for minorities or 'race traitors'.

Perhaps it was due to her more gaseous status, but while in shadow form she picked up sound more easily. This led her to the sound of whimpering and cruel laughter. Two men and a woman in their late teens or early twenties were beating up a thin man of about the same age. He was on his hands and knees, trying to push himself back up, but they would kick him in the gut until he fell over once again. Still, he didn't curl up and take it. He kept trying.

That was good enough for her. Drifting down, she fired both crossbows and caught the men in their sides. The smaller one toppled over from the shock and pain, while the stockier one only staggered. Shadow Stalker charged into the woman, mowing her down. This girl wasn't any kind of fighter: a hook to the kidney, a throat punch, and a leg swept through hers had the blonde down and in no condition to get back up.

Thudding footsteps caused her to turn, and Sophia barely had time to turn shadow before a meaty fist swung through her head. She flowed through him and turned to slam a roundhouse kick into his left side, right on top of the bolt wound. Then a leaping hammerfist to his right collarbone and neck, forcing him to lean further left. A rabbit-punch to his wound as he started to round on her, then turning shadow just in time to avoid a sweeping clothesline. She drifted back, reloading her crossbows while he lurched after her, and fired them both into his chest. The big man staggered, moving almost like a glitchy video, then dropped. If the initial shots hadn't sealed his fate, the fact that he fell on them and drove at least one bolt deep into his chest cavity was an all-but-literal nail in his coffin.

The skinnier male was the only Nazi still conscious, so she strode over to him. A boot to the face had him sprawled flat on his back. "Listen up, fucker, because I'm not repeating myself. You pieces of shit have had free rein of my city for too long. See your butt-buddy over there? That's what's waiting for you now. Only reason you and your whore are still alive is I want you to spread the word. Shadow Stalker's playing for keeps. I see Kaiser, I'm putting a bolt between his eyes. I'm cleaning up this city, and getting rid of any trash too stupid to leave."

Keeping an eye on the Nazi, she moved over to their victim. He'd managed to get into a sitting position and was clutching his ribs. His breath came out in wheezes. "Thanks," he rasped. "Aren't Wards not supposed to kill people?"

"I'm not with the Protectorate anymore," she replied. "They're no help in actually fixing things. I'm out on my own, making a difference, and they want to arrest me for it." She shook her head. "You should call an ambulance. And the cops."

The skinny Nazi began to scramble to his feet. She shot him in the leg. "I say you could leave, cocksucker!?" Once satisfied that her prey wouldn't be going anywhere, Shadow Stalker left the scene before the police could get there and try anything with her.

(BREAK)

The immense upheaval surrounding the emergence of parahumans devastated most of the world. The US and Canada, both relatively stable nations, weren't exceptionally affected. When North America had to deal with the likes of the Slaughterhouse 9, Nilbog, the Elite, and the Machine Army, this should illustrate just how poorly the rest of the world had fared. Islamic nations faced greater ideological fragmentation based around how to view parahumans, leading to what was basically an endless war. Africa, already notorious for warlords and military coups, became a revolving door for tyrants who would dominate vast swathes of the continent before being killed off scant months later. The Soviet Union, already on the verge of collapse, disintegrated upon the appearance of Sleeper. Europe as a whole began to fall apart, the EEC breaking up due to the resurgence of Nazism as well as the Three Blasphemies' assassinations and other devastation.

It was this other devastation, in the Bosnian city of Sarajevo, that caught the interest of the international community: a massive divot had been carved by some energy attack, revealing an ancient ruin buried deep beneath the city's outskirts. The ruin was a combination of gray stone and, amazingly, black metal. More incredible, and in defiance of all common sense, was the writing carved into the walls. Old Egyptian, a language that died around 2,000 BC, was lovingly engraved into the walls, almost like halls of religious reflection.

Due to this finding, a multinational group of Egyptologists, archaeologists and historical anthropologists assembled to research what this could mean for the international community such as it was. Simply the presence of such a bizarre metal and ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs made it a curiosity. Already people were questioning whether this was proof of Tinkers in the ancient world.

While chemical analysts and metallurgists studied the metal, Armand Hemmond was leading a small group into what he'd dubbed the Main Hall. The ruin was by no means fully mapped, but what he'd managed to translate thus far indicated that this was intended to be a primary location.

"Some of this is downright Archaic, and I'll need to confer on a proper translation," he said, casting his helmet light over the engraved symbols, "but I'll at least give it a shot."

His colleagues, a pair of anthropologists named Beatrix and Jin, were only absently listening while they explored the hall. There were numerous offshoots into what seemed like ancient conference rooms – massive stone tables surrounded by seats – and various dormitories.

"The weirdest thing is that it becomes more 'modern', at least as far as Old Egyptian goes, as the story goes on. I'm not sure if this is some sort of thematic choice, or if they really took centuries to finish this record. Anyway..." He looked it over again. "It talks about fleeing persecution, or maybe war. With this ambiguous timetable, I can't begin to guess what exactly they were fleeing. But according to this, they followed a...a messiah on a pilgrimage from Egypt all the way to here."

"Hold up," Beatrix poked around the doorway from the dormitory she'd been investigating. She disentangled another stray lock of curly brown hair from her coke-bottle glasses. "You don't think we're hearing the true version of the Moses story?"

Armand blinked. "Shit. If we are...this could change so much of our history." He read further. "We might. This says their messiah brought knowledge from the heavens to protect them from those who would attack them. This temple was constructed to contain the..." Armand shook his head. "I'm not sure. I think it says 'the history of the future', but that doesn't exactly make sense. Could be symbolic, though."

"Armand! Beatrix!" Jin's shout echoed down the hall. Neither one had realized he'd gotten so far from them. Following his light and his repeated calls, they found him in a cavernous atrium. The ceiling and walls were not hewn stone: they were natural. Looking back, Armand made note of the three arches of the entryway and the odd crescent of stone that made up the front entrance.

"Look at this," Jin almost whispered, his awe palpable. An enormous black edifice loomed above him, tilting slightly forward like a crooked finger arching out of the ground. Enormous crystals were fitted into the inner curve, and the entire lopsided pillar was capped with a pyramid of the same milky crystal. He stepped back, looking it up and down yet again. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

"I've never even heard of something like this," Beatrix replied.

Armand approached the structure, inspecting it for any further writing. "This was obviously significant. Placed right outside of the entrance? There must have been some quake or other event that buried all this. But somehow it remained intact? Whoever built this...it's on another level from anything else I've ever seen.

"Y'know," Beatrix tapped her lip, "if they were running from persecution and had others trying to attack them, makes you wonder why they'd be so extravagant. I mean, the huge temple? This giant obelisk? It just screams 'Hey, come rob me!'"

Not finding any writing, Armand went to investigate the crystals. "Could have something to do with the knowledge from heaven that let them fight off enemies. Maybe this whole setup was to glorify their god? Or their messiah?"

As Jin began inspecting the rest of the cavern, Beatrix continued the conversation. "Maybe, but this doesn't seem like any Hebrew setup I've ever seen."

"Wouldn't be the first time a society's taken another's mythos for their own." Armand's face scrunched in confusion. "Hey, do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Jin asked as he jogged back. "I can't find any entrance. I think you're right on that quake idea."

The humming grew loud enough for the other two to hear it as well. Beatrix pointed over Armand's shoulder, back to the statue. The milky-white crystals were beginning to glow red, while the hum grew deafening. The pyramid atop the obelisk glowed, casting shadows downward that made the construct appear like the tail of a great scorpion.

"Dear god," Armand croaked.


	9. Establishment 01

**A/N:** Well, folks, I'm finally back to it! It's been a while so I'll give a quick recap on where we are, as well as a change to the story's structure – I'm moving the story into a shifting perspective. When Taylor is the focus, we'll be reading it in first-person. But because things are moving so much in the background, I'll be jumping around to various third-person observations for the other characters and groups.

 **RECAP:** In the last chapter, Danny got in touch with Annette's mother, matriarch of the Rosier family, in order to secure money and clout for Taylor to attend Immaculata. The Rosiers have never liked Danny, as they saw the marriage as Annette choosing below her station and giving up her chance of becoming a stateswoman or being the wife of a politician. In the interlude, we saw Sophia starting her career as a sponsored vigilante, badmouthing the Protectorate and Wards while she brutalizes street thugs. And across the Atlantic, in Bosnia, an ancient underground ruin was uncovered beneath Sarajevo…

 **Establishment 2.01**

I gazed at myself in the mirror, forcing a smile. If I pretended to be happy and excited, maybe I could fake it well enough to fool myself. It was honestly shocking how quickly Immaculata had accepted me. I knew Mom's family still had pull in the upper echelons of New Hampshire society, but still. I already had uniforms, a school schedule and a student assigned to help me get acclimated over the first week. The uniform was pretty, almost reminiscent of the anime from before Japan got torn apart. Sailor Moon, maybe? The shirts were either polo shirts or long-sleeved ones, pristine white with deep maroon collars. Boys got the choice between a tie or a ruffled cravat-like thing, while we girls were stuck with the cravat. While I didn't like the idea of wearing a skirt, and it was permitted for girls to wear pants, Dad had suggested it was a chance to make a new start and try something new. I already couldn't hide under baggy clothes, so why not try? Either way, the slacks and pleated calf-length skirts were the same maroon as the collars and neck accessories. I fluffed my hair in my hands and let it spill down my back, gazing into my own hazel eyes within the mirror. It was hard to admit, due to my natural gangly awkwardness and a campaign of hatred waged against me, but...I actually felt pretty. The white brought out the deep chocolatey hues of my hair and the maroon made my skin look not quite so pasty. I could do this.

Two steps out of my room and my opinion changed. _Nope, not doing it. Too scared_. I wanted to crawl back under my covers and roll up into a blanket cocoon. Unfortunately, I now had too much riding on this. Dad wanted to see his daughter happy again, and had risked Grandma's wrath for the chance. And, well, Grandma was scary in her own right even without the Rosier-Hebert war. I didn't want her upset with me; considering how many people she knew, I might end up with a horse head in my bed!

I managed to force myself down the stairs and found my father waiting for me. His bright smile once again lifted my mood. "You look beautiful, sweetie," he said before flinching as the bacon crackled. He returned his attention to cooking breakfast so as not to get struck by stray grease.

I sat down at the table. "Not sure I'll be able to eat; my stomach is doing flip-flips," I muttered.

"You have no reason to be nervous," he replied, voice soft. "You're bright and sweet: everybody's going to love you. Besides, if anybody gives you trouble, I'll tell your grandma on them!" He laughed, but I wouldn't put it past him to do it. Or for her to go on the warpath. She'd been fiercely protective of Mom while she was alive. And, since Dad got back in contact with her, she'd been calling regularly to check up on us. "Do you know your schedule?"

I nodded. "I probably don't have it memorized, but I will. First period is Math, then Biology. Then English, a free period, and Gym. American and World History are back-to-back, and Chemistry's at the end." I rustled through my backpack to find the schedule. "Ha! That's right!"

Dad plucked the bacon from the pan and set it on paper towels, using the tongs to flip the rashers several times before laying more paper towels atop them and blotting the excess grease off. "And your student guide?"

"Somebody Wong..." I scanned the sheet. "Ah! An-Yi Wong. She's on the same schedule as me." I sighed. "Hopefully we won't see any ABB crap there."

Dad slid a plate of over-hard eggs, bacon and toast in front of me. "Nothing overt, at least. Immaculata can afford to kick people out if they cause trouble. Speaking of, I hope you're not going to tackle any more capes in the lunch room."

"I make no promises," I smirked back, but my expression was as forced as the casual mirth in my father's voice. He was worried for me, and I was too, but I had to do this.

After breakfast, Dad and I climbed into the truck. I'd felt guilty about him having to drive so far out of his way to drop me off, but he allayed my fears: he'd managed to make things work out for us. One of the DWU's tool suppliers was out that way, and they usually sent the equipment out in bulk shipments. Now, though, he could pick up whatever they had for him after he dropped me off. It sounded like an excuse to me, an attempt to make me not feel so bad, but if it was saving the Union a little money I could accept that.

(BREAK)

With a kiss on the top of my head and a gentle ruffling of my hair, Dad dropped me off on the front walk of Immaculata's campus. The place was gorgeous, built in a sort of Victorian-Gothic fusion reminiscent of a cathedral. The primary building was a soft tan color, sort of like pictures I'd seen of French cathedrals, with a tiled roof and a front steeple with a huge bronze bell. The steeple tower looked older than the rest of the building, so it might have started as a real church and been built up bigger over time. It didn't sprawl nearly as much as Winslow, but it also looked like it had at least three stories. Off to the sides were other, more modern and spartan buildings.

"Hi!" The word jerked me out of my observations and I may have squeaked and jumped a little. I looked down at a tiny girl beside me. She couldn't have been much taller than five feet even. Her sleek black hair was tied back in a short ponytail, dark almond-shaped eyes twinkling over round cheeks. She wasn't chubby, and the rest of her was slender, but she had oddly wide cheeks that rose up into little hills when she smiled. "Since you look like a tourist but you're wearing the uniform, I'm gonna guess you're Taylor."

I blinked, then finally made a noise. "Jeez, sorry. Yeah, I just spaced out there." I offered a handshake. "Taylor Hebert. You're An-Yi? I hope I'm pronouncing that right."

She took my hand in a firm grip and gave it a few enthusiastic shakes. "Close enough. Chinese is a real inflection-based language. Feel free to just call me Annie, though. Grew up with my friends calling me that and it stuck." She released my hand and gestured for me to follow her. "So welcome to Immaculata. I'll be your tour guide, and I accept tips! We've got a little time before the bell, so lemme put names to the buildings you were staring at. The big cathedral in front of us is Immaculata. It's the original school building, built on the site of an older church built by Romanian immigrants – _Doamna Noastra de Conceptie Imaculata_. But it got trashed in a sort of religious gang war between Catholics and Protestants. The church also had a library and a lot of people were pissed about all that knowledge being destroyed. So, people managed to convince the governor to buy the property and the church was rebuilt and expanded on the old foundations, turned into a school. I think they added the extra M to English-ify it."

I quirked an eyebrow. "Did you have all this memorized, or…?"

Annie chuckled. "Wish I could say I did, but nah. I did a cram session on the school's history so I could be a proper tour guide." She then pointed to our left. "Now that one's Baker Hall. It's our science building; got special ventilation and all sorts of systems in case of chemical accidents. We have AP classes as well as after-school projects if you really get into that stuff. On the other side is the Dormer Gymnasium. Self-explanatory. And you can't see it behind the cathedral – we still just call it the cathedral for simplicity's sake – but behind it is the cafeteria building." Annie started leading me up the sidewalk and steps into the Immaculata building. "When the school was a lot smaller they used to do things monk-style: students had to work the gardens and grow the crops, then they'd eat on the main floor in here. Now that the school's so much bigger, and we got rid of the gardens to make room for football and track, we have a separate cafeteria building. Food's good, and every Thursday we have something special. Sometimes it's pizza made in-house, other times it's burritos. The cooks get a chance to let loose. They also offer cooking classes after school."

It was difficult to focus on her words. It was incredible how different Immaculata was from Winslow. In Winslow, everything was gray. The walls were carved with deep gouges from janitorial and A/V carts crashing into them, and of course from various blades as well. Graffiti and chipping paint were also common. The front hall of Immaculata...was made from wood! The walls were a gorgeous reddish wood – cherrywood? – and the floor was hardwood with a plush dark-green area rug filling the center of the room. A trophy case was set to my left, filled with all sorts of different awards. A few from sports, but more from academic competitions. Immaculata actually had contact with other cities! In hindsight, it was amazing how much that shocked me. But Winslow felt like a black hole, where nothing could ever leave. Your entire world was that tiny cosmos of pain, and nothing would ever get better. Just being in here reminded me that there was a wider world. "This place is amazing," I muttered.

"Hey, when they charge this much for tuition, they better give us some good stuff in return!" she laughed.

"So, um," I decided to just bite the bullet and ask. "What're things like with the gangs, here?"

She blinked at me, then her eyes widened in understanding. "Right, you came from Winslow. I've heard stories about that place. No, there are no stabbings or gang wars in here. Nobody wears colors openly or sells crack in the bathrooms. Not that there aren't some people who get high, but I don't know where they hide to do it. That said, you can still feel it. I'm pretty sure I know a couple guys who're ABB, or whose families are. And you can usually tell the Empire kids by the way they look at the rest of us. No Merchants, I think."

"How do you manage it? Keeping the peace, I mean?"

"That part's easy," Annie smirked. "We're a private school. Yeah, the tuition money is nice, but it also means we reserve the right to kick you out. We've had a few fights, some gang stuff happens on occasion. If you're lucky, you're let off with harsh punishments. If not, you're booted from the school altogether. And, because most people's parents know each other, everybody knows you're the screw-up who got kicked out."

"Ouch, and in high society – or what passes for it in Brockton..."

"Yeah, the kids who get expelled will get a lot worse punishment than we could ever do. Anyway, let's move on to more pleasant subjects. C'mon, I'll show you the classrooms."

(BREAK)

Cable TV held a lot of entertainment, made even more enjoyable when it was free. Kenta stretched his arms above his head and popped his neck, settling in to binge-watch an oddly compelling show he'd found completely by accident when some of his junior recruits were being bullied for their enjoyment of it. He'd never expected that a show about pastel-colored, singing horses would be so engaging.

His relaxation was interrupted by his second-in-command. "Kenta, you have an urgent call." Even when not wearing his mask, Lee was still so stiff. Kenta worried for his old friend, privately concerned about the old superstitions. Whenever Lee teleported, his old body dissolved into ash. Was his soul dying a little bit each time? Still, even that concern couldn't trump his annoyance.

"Urgent enough to warrant interrupting my relaxation?" This episode sounded really exciting, too. Looking at Lee's expression, which was drawn and slightly tense, Kenta decided it was indeed urgent enough. Or at least important enough to get Lee to show emotion. He accepted the phone. "Hai."

" _Not using the language of your adopted home? That could be considered bad form._ " The slightly raspy voice was instantly recognizable to him. Kenta straightened in his seat. How could he forget the voice who helped coordinate his escape from the hated Yangban?

"In a city of racial supremacy, I respond in kind. But that is not why you called, Horus." The man may have helped him, but he held no illusions that it was done out of kindness. Whichever masters Horus served, they somehow managed to operate internationally.

" _Indeed not. You now have a chance to begin paying back your debt._ " And here it was. Kenta had spent years waiting for the sword of Damocles to fall. What would they demand he do? Was he to be some military asset for a coup? And if he were to refuse, would Horus somehow be able to turn him over to the Yangban once again? " _I'm sending you an email; don't worry, it'll go through your spam filter. Within you will find the name and photograph of our newest sleeper asset. She is not fully aware of her significance, but she is vital to the future. Ours, and yours. There is no immediate demand for your action: instead, I expect you to memorize her name and face. If the need arises, we will call on you to intercede on her behalf. You WILL intercede, using all of your resources to protect her._ "

He couldn't resist poking the bear. "And if I do not?"

A throaty chuckle was his only answer. " _Take care, Kenta._ " And with that, Horus once again vanished from his life.

(BREAK)

Across the city, Geoffrey Schmidt smoothly answered the ringing telephone. "Ja, hello?"

The voice on the other end, calm and authoritative, spoke in his native tongue. " _Dann rief er laut: »Lazarus, komm heraus!«Und Lazarus kam heraus. Hände und Füße waren mit Grabtüchern umwickelt, und auch sein Gesicht war mit einem Tuch verhüllt. »Nehmt ihm die Tücher ab«, forderte Jesus die Leute auf, »und lasst ihn gehen!«_ "

Geoff's fingers went slack, as did his face. The phone nearly tumbled from his loose grip. Across the room, his wife Dorothy stood up. "Sweetheart," she asked, in the programmed manner she always did when something seemed odd in their family life, "what's wrong?"

As the line went dead, he was finally able to articulate words. "Mein Oberst..."


End file.
